UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022094074 


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RAB  AND  HIS 
FRIENDS 

AND 
OTHER  SKETCHES 


^ 


JOHN   BROWN,  M.D. 


^ 


i 


THE  F.  M.  LUPTON 
PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


T&  mf  TWO    FRIENDS 

ai  Busby,  KcnJ^'nuihi^t^ 

,%  MsPtembrance  of  a  Journey  fra>n  C^*^UAf% 

Jkkiutijn  to  T'jiiido  a/iU  f^-4^A 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2011  witii  funding  from 

University  of  Nortii  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/rabhisfriendsbrownlupt 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

FouR-AND-THiRTY  years  ago,  Bob  Ainslie 
and  I  were  coming  up  Infirmary  Street  from 
the  High  School,  our  heads  together,  and  our 
arms  intertwisted,  as  only  lovers  and  boys 
know  how,  or  why. 

When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street,  and 
turned  north,  we  espied  a  crowd  at  the  Tron 
Church.  "A  dog-fight!"  shouted  Bob,  and 
was  off ;  and  so  was  I,  both  of  us  all  but  pray- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  over  before  we  got 
up  !  And  is  not  this  boy-nature  ?  and  humaij 
nature  too  ?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a  house  on 
fire  not  to  be  out  before  we  see  it  ?  Dogs  like 
fighting ;  old  Isaac  says  they  *'  delight "  in  it, 
and  for  the  best  of  all  reasons ;  and  boys  are 
not  cruel  because  they  like  to  see  the  fight 
They  see  three  of  the  great  cardinal  virtues  of 
dog  or  man — courage,  endurance,  and  skill— 
in  intense  action.  This  is  very  different  from 
%  love  of  making  dog$  figt^^  and  enigying,  and 


$  1Rab  and  bf6  jfdenda. 

aggravating,  and  making  gain  by  their  plucfc 
A  boy — ^be  he  ever  so  fond  himself  of  fighting, 
if  he  be  a  good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all 
this,  but  he  would  have  run  off  with  Bob  and 
me  fast  enough  :  it  is  a  natural,  and  a  not 
wicked  interest,  that  all  boys  and  men  have 
in  witnessing  intense  energy  in  action. 

Does  any  curious  and  finely-ignorant  woman 
wish  to  know  how  Bob's  eye  at  a  glance  an- 
nounced a  dog-fight  to  his  brain  ?  He  did 
not,  he  could  not  see  the  dogs  fighting ;  it 
was  a  flash  of  an  inference,  a  rapid  induction. 
The  crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs  fighting,  is 
a  crowd  masculine  mainly,  with  an  occasional 
active,  compassionate  woman,  fluttering  wildly 
round  the  outside,  and  using  her  tongue  and 
her  hands  freely  upon  the  men,  as  so  many 
**  brutes ;  "  it  is  a  crowd  annular,  compact,  and 
mobile ;  a  crowd  centripetal,  having  its  eyes 
and  its  heads  all  bent  downwards  and  inwards, 
to  one  common  focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it  is  not 
over  :  a  small  thoroughbred,  white  bull-terrier, 
is  busy  throttling  a  large  shepherd's  dog,  unac- 
customed to  war,  but  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
They  are  hard  at  it ;  the  scientific  little  fellow 
doing  his  work  in  great  style,  his  pastoral 


TRab  anD  bis  ^FrfcnDs.  7 

enemy  fighting  wildly,  but  with  the  sharpest  of 
teeth  and  a  great  courage.  Science  and  breed" 
ing,  however,  soon  had  their  own ;  the  Game 
Chicken,  as  the  premature  Bob  called  him, 
working  his  v/ay  up,  took  his  final  grip  of  poor 
Yarrow's  throat, — and  he  lay  gasping  and 
done  for.  His  master,  abrown,  handsome,  big 
young  shepherd  from  Tweedsmuir,  would  have 
liked  to  have  knocked  down  any  man,  would 
**  drink  up  Esil,  or  eat  a  crocodile,"  for  that  part, 
if  he  had  a  chance  :  it  was  no  use  kicking  tha 
little  dog  ;  that  would  only  make  him  hold  the 
closer.  Many  were  the  means  shouted  out  in 
mouthfuls,  of  the  best  possible  ways  of  ending 
it  "  Water  I "  but  there  was  none  near,  and 
many  cried  for  it  who  might  have  got  it  from 
the  well  at  Blackfriars  Wynd.  "  Bite  the 
tail  1 "  and  a  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle- 
aged  man,  more  desirous  than  wise,  with  some 
struggle  got  the  bushy  end  of  Yarrow^s  tail 
into  his  ample  mouth,  and  bit  it  with  all  his 
might.  This  was  more  than  enough  for  the 
much-enduring,  much-perspiring  shepherd, 
who,  with  a  gleam  of  joy  over  his  broad  visage, 
delivered  a  terrific  facer  upon  our  large,  vague, 
benevolent,  middle-aged  friend, — who  wen| 
down  like  a  shot 


S  "Rab  anD  bts  ^rienOs. 

Still  the  Chicken  holds ;  death  not  far  oE 
"  Snuff !  a  pinch  of  snuff  I "  observed  a  calm, 
highly-dressed  young  buck,  with  an  eyeglass 
in  his  eye.  "  Snuff,  indeed  I  '*  growled  the 
angry  crowd,  affronted  and  glaring.  "  Snuff  I 
a  pinch  of  snuff  I "  again  observes  the  buck, 
but  with  more  urgency;  whereon  were  pro 
duced  several  open  boxes,  and  from  a  mull 
which  may  have  been  at  Culloden,  he  took  a 
pinch,  knelt  down,  and  presented  it  to  the 
nose  of  the  Chicken.  The  laws  of  physiology 
and  of  snuff  take  their  course ;  the  Chicken 
sneezes,  and  Yarrow  is  free  I 

The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off  with 
Yarrow  in  his  arms, — comforting  him. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up,  and  his 
Boul  unsatisfied;  he  grips  the  first  dog  he 
meets,  and  discovering  she  is  not  a  dog,  in 
Homeric  phrase,  he  makes  a  brief  sort  of 
amende^  and  is  off.  The  boys,  with  Bob  and 
me  at  their  head,  are  after  him  :  down  Niddry 
Street  he  goes,  bent  on  mischief ;  up  the  Cow 
gate  like  an  arrow — Bob  and  I,  and  our  small 
men,  panting  behind. 

There,  under  the  single  arch  of  the  South 
Bridge,  is  a  huge  mastiff,  sauntering  down  the 
middle  of  the  causeway,  as  if  with  his  hands 


lRa&  an^  bis  ifrlcnDs.  9 

in  his  pockets :  he  is  old,  gray,  brindled,  aj 
big  as  a  little  Highland  bull,  and  has  the 
Shaksperian  dewlaps  shaking  as  he  goes. 

The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him,  and 
fastens  on  his  throat.  To  our  astonishment, 
the  great  creature  does  nothing  but  stand  still, 
hold  himself  up,  and  roar — yes,  roar  ;  a  long, 
serious,  remonstrative  roar.  How  is  this? 
Bob  and  I  are  up  to  them.  He  is  muzzled} 
The  bailies  had  proclaimed  a  general  muz- 
xling,  and  his  master,  studying  strength  and 
economy  mainly,  had  encompassed  his  huge 
jaws  in  a  home-made  apparatus,  constructed 
out  of  the  leather  of  some  ancient  breechin^ 
His  mouth  was  open  as  far  as  it  could  ;  his 
lips  curled  up  in  rage — a  sort  of  terrible  grin ; 
his  teeth  gleaming,  ready,  from  out  the  dark* 
ness ;  the  strap  across  his  mouth  tense  as  a 
bowstring ;  his  whole  frame  stiff  with  indig- 
nation and  surprise :  his  roar  asking  us  all 
round,  "  Did  you  ever  see  the  like  of  this  ? " 
He  looked  a  statue  of  anger  and  astonishment, 
done  in  Aberdeen  granite. 

We  soon  had  a  crowd  :  the  Chicken  held  on, 
•  A  knife ! "  cried  Bob ;  and  a  cobbler  gave 
him  his  knife :  you  know  the  kind  of  knife, 
worn  away  obliquely  to  a  pointt  and  «ilwaya 


to  "Kab  anO  bia  3FcfenD0. 

keen.  I  put  its  edge  to  the  tense  leather ;  it 
ran  before  it ;  and  then  ! — one  sudden  jerk  of 
that  enormous  head,  a  sort  of  dirty  mist  about 
his  mouth,  no  noise, — and  the  bri^^ht  and 
fierce  little  fellow  is  dropped,  limp,  and  dead 
A  solemn  pause ;  this  was  more  than  any  oC 
us  had  bargained  for.  I  turned  the  little 
fellow  over,  and  saw  he  was  quite  dead  :  the 
mastiff  had  taken  him  by  the  small  of  the  back 
like  a  rat,  and  broken  it 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim  appeased, 
ashamed,  and  amazed  ;  snuffed  him  all  over, 
stared  at  him,  and  taking  a  sudden  thought, 
turned  round  and  trotted  off.  Bob  took  the 
dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "  John,  we'll  bury  him 
after  tea."  "  Yes,"  said  I,  and  was  off  after  the 
mastiff.  He  made  up  the  Cowgate  at  a  rapid 
swing;  he  had  forgotten  some  engagement. 
He  turned  up  the  Candlemaker  Row,  and 
Stopped  at  the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier's  cart  ready  to  starts 
and  a  keen,  thin,  impatient,  black-a- vised  little 
man,  his  hand  at  his  gray  horse's  head,  look- 
ing about  angrily  for  something.  "  Rab,  ye 
thief  I "  said  he,  aiming  a  kick  at  my  great 
friend,  who  drew  cringing  up,  and  avoiding  the 
heavy  shoe  v/ith  more  agility  than  dignity,  and 


TRab  anD  bis  ^ncn^e*  n 

watching  his  master's  eye,  slunk  dismayed 
under  the  cart, — his  ears  down,  and  as  much 
as  he  had  of  tail  down  too. 

What  a  man  this  must  be — thought  I — to 
"whom  my  tremendous  hero  turns  tail !  The 
carrier  saw  the  muzzle  hanging,  cut  and  use- 
less, from  his  neck,  and  I  eagerly  told  him  the 
story,  which  Bob  and  I  always  thought,  and 
still  think,  Homer,  or  Kmg  David,  or  Sir 
Walter,  alone  were  worthy  to  rehearse.  The 
severe  little  m_an  was  mitigated,  and  conde- 
scended to  say,  "  Rab,  ma  man,  puir  Rabble," 
— whereupon  the  stump  of  a  tail  rose  up,  the 
ears  were  cocked,  the  eyes  filled,  and  were 
comforted ;  the  two  friends  were  reconciled. 
**  Hupp ! "  and  a  stroke  of  the  whip  were  given 
to  Jess ;  and  off  went  the  three. 

Bob  and  I  buried  the  Game  Chicken  that 
night  (we  had  not  much  of  a  tea)  in  the  back- 
green  of  his  house,  in  Melville  Street,  No.  17, 
with  considerable  gravity  and  silence;  and 
being  at  the  time  in  the  Iliad,  and,  like  all 
boys,  Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector  ol 
course. 


la  'Baab  anD  bis  fxicn^ 


Six  years  have  passed, — a  long  time  for  t 
boy  and  a  dog :  Bob  Ainslie  is  off  to  the  wars ; 

I  am  a  medical  student,  and  cierk  at  Minto 
House  Hospital. 

Rab  I  saw  almost  every  week,  on  the  Wed- 
nesday ;  and  we  had  much  pleasant  intimacy. 
I  tound  the  way  to  his  heart  by  frequent 
scratching  of  his  huge  head,  and  an  occasional 
bone.  When  I  did  not  notice  him  he  would 
plant  himself  straight  before  me,  and  stand 
wagging  that  bud  of  a  tail,  and  looking  up, 
with  his  head  a  little  to  the  one  side.  His 
master  I  occasionally  saw;  he  used  to  call 
me  "  Maister  John,"  but  was  laconic  as  any 
Spartan. 

One  fine  October  afternoon,  I  was  leaving 
the  hospital,  when  I  saw  the  large  gate  open, 
and  in  walked  Rab,  with  that  great  and  easy 
saunter  of  his.  He  looked  as  if  taking  general 
possession  of  the  place ;  like  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city,  satiated 
with  victory  and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess, 
now  white  from  age,  with  her  cart ;  and  in  it 
a  woman,  carefully  wrapped  up, — the  canief 


Viub  auD  bis  ifcicnDs.  13 

leading  the  horse  anxiously,  and  looking  back. 
When  he  saw  me,  James  (for  his  name  was 
James  Noble)  made  a  curt  and  grotesque 
**  boo,*' and  said,  "  Maister  John,  this  is  the 
mistress ;  she^s  got  a  trouble  in  her  breest-— 
some  kind  o'  an  income  we're  thinkin'.  '* 

By  this  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face  ;  she 
was  sitting  on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her 
husband's  plaid  round  her,  and  his  big-coat, 
with  its  large  white  metal  buttons,  over  her 
feet 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgetable  face — pale, 
serious,  lonely ^^  delicate,  sweet,  without  being 
at  all  what  we  call  fine.  She  looked  sixty,  and 
had  on  a  mutch,  white  as  snow,  with  its  black 
ribbon;  her  silvery,  smooth  hair  setting  of! 
her  dark-gray  eyes — eyes  such  as  one  sees 
only  twice  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  full  of  suffer* 
ing,  full  also  of  the  overcoming  of  it :  her  eye- 
brows black  and  delicate,  and  her  mouth  firm, 
patient,  and  contented,  which  few  mouths  ever 
are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beauti- 
ful countenance,  or  one  more  subdued  to 
settled  quiet.     *'  Ailie,"  said    James,  "  this  is 

'  It  is  not  easy  giving  this  look  by  one  word  ;  it  wa« 
e^ressive  of  her  being  so  much  of  her  life  alone. 


14  "KaO  anD  bis  ifrienDs. 

Maister  John,  the  young  doctor ;  Rab's  friend, 
ye  ken.  We  often  speak  aboot  you,  doctor." 
She  smiled,  and  made  a  movement,  but  said 
nothing ;  and  prepared  to  come  down,  putting 
her  plaid  aside  and  rising.  Had  Solomon,  in 
all  his  glory,  been  handing  down  the  Queeo 
of  Sbeba  at  his  palace  gate,  he  could  not  have 
done  it  more  daintily,  more  tenderly,  more 
like  a  gentleman,  than  did  James  the  Howgatc 
carrier,  when  he  lifted  down  Ailie  his  wifa 
The  contrast  of  his  small,  swarthy,  weather- 
beaten,  keen,  worldly  face  to  hers — pale,  sub* 
dued,  and  beautiful — was  something  wonder- 
ful Rab  looked  on  concerned  and  puzzled, 
but  ready  for  anything  that  might  turn  up,— 
were  it  to  strangle  the  nurse,  the  porter,  of 
even  me,  Ailie  and  he  seemed  great  friends. 
I  •*  As  I  was  sayin*,  she's  got  a  kind  o*  trouble 
In  her  breest,  doctor :  wull  ye  tak'  a  look  at 
!t?**  We  walked  into  the  consulting-room, 
all  four ;  Rab  grim  and  comic,  willing  to  be 
happy  and  confidential  if  cause  could  b© 
shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse,  on  the 
same  terms.  Ailie  sat  down,  undid  her  open 
gown  and  her  lawn  handkerchief  round  hef 
neck,  and,  without  a  word,  showed  me  her 
light  breast.    I  looked  at  and  examined  H 


IRab  and  bl6  jfrlenO^*  it 

carefully, — she  and  James  watching  me,  and 
Rab  eyeing  all  three.  What  could  I  say? 
there  it  was,  that  had  once  been  so  soft,  so 
shapely,  so  white,  so  gracious  and  bountiful 
so  "  full  of  all  blessed  conditions," — hard  aj 
a  stone,  a  center  of  horrid  pain,  making  that 
pale  face,  with  its  gray,  lucid,  reasonable  eyes, 
and  its  sweet  resolved  mouth,  express  the  full 
measure  of  suffering  overcome.  Why  was 
that  gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean  and 
lovably  condemned  by  God  to  bear  such  a 
burden  ? 

I  got  her  away  to  bed.  •*  May  Rab  and  ma 
bide  ? "  said  James.  "  You  may ;  and  Rab,  if 
he  will  behave  himself,"  "  I'se  warrant  he*8 
do  that,  doctor ; "  and  in  slunk  the  faithful 
beast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him. 
There  are  no  such  dogs  now.  He  belonged 
to  a  lost  tribe.  As  I  have  said,  he  was 
brirdled,  and  gray  like  Rubislaw  granite  ;  his 
hair  short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a  lion's ;  his 
body  thick  set,  like  a  little  bull — a  sort  of  cora« 
pressed  Hercules  of  a  dog.  He  must  have 
been  ninety  pounds'  weight,  at  the  least ;  he 
had  a  large  blunt  head ;  his  muzzle  black  as 
night,  his  mouth  blacker  than  any  night,  % 
tooth  or  two — bemg  all  he  had — ^gleaming  oul 


t6  Itl^v  Awo  bie  SticnZ>9. 

of  his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head  was 
scarred  with  the  records  of  old  wounds,  a  sort 
of  series  of  fields  of  battle  all  over  it ;  one 
eye  out,  one  ear  cropped  as  close  as  was  Arch- 
bishop Leighton's  father's ;  the  remaining  eye 
had  the  power  of  two ;  and  above  it,  and  ia 
constant  communication  with  it,  was  a  tattered 
rag  of  an  ear,  which  was  forever  unfurling 
itself,  like  an  old  flag ;  and  then  that  bud  of  a 
tail,  about  one  inch  long,  if  it  could  in  any 
sense  be  said  to  be  long,  being  as  broad  as 
long — the  mobility,  the  instantaneousness  of 
that  bud  were  very  funny  and  surprising,  and 
its  expressive  twinklings  and  winkings,  the 
intercommunications  between  the  eye,  the  ear 
and  it,  were  of  the  oddest  and  swiftest. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great 
size ;  and  having  fought  his  way  all  along  the 
road  to  absolute  supremacy,  he  was  as  mighty 
in  his  own  line  as  Julius  Caesar  or  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity*  of  al! 
great  fighters. 

•  A  Highland  game-keeper,  when  asked  by  &  certaia 
terrier,  of  smgular  pluck,  was  so  much  iuore  solemn 
than  the  other  dogs,  said,  "Oh,  sir,  life's  full  & 
sauiousneiss  to  ium— ke  ju&t  oever  caa  g/st  enufi  ^ 
fecbtm*.** 


"Kab  an^  bis  tftienDa,  17 

You  must  have  often  observed  the  likeness 
of  certain  men  to  certain  animals,  and  of  certain 
dogs  to  men.  Now,  I  never  looked  at  Rab 
without  thinking  of  the  great  Baptist  preacher, 
Andrew  Fuller.^  The  same  large,  heavy, 
menacing,  combative,  somber,  honest  counten- 
ance, the  same  deep  inevitable  eye,  the  same 
look, — as  of  thunder  asleep,  but  ready, — 
neither  a  dog  nor  a  man  to  be  trifled  with. 

Next  da)^,  my  master,  the  surgeon,  examined 
Ailie.  There  was  no  doubt  it  must  kill  her, 
and  soon.  It  could  be  removed — it  might 
never  return — it  would  give  her  speedy  relief 
— she   should   hare   it  done.     She    curtsied, 

1  Fuller  was,  in  early  life,  when  a  farmer  lad  at  Soham, 
famous  as  a  boxer :  not  quarrelsome,  but  not  without 
*the  stern  delight "  a  man  of  strength,  and  courage  feels 
in  their  exercise.  Dr.  Charles  Stewart,  of  Duneam, 
-whose  rare  gifts  and  graces  as  a  physician,  a  divine,  a 
scholar,  and  a  gentleman,  live  only  in  the  memory  of 
those  few  >vho  knew  and  survive  him,  liked  to  tell  how 
JJLy.  Fuller  used  to  say,  that  when  he  was  in  the  pulpit, 
and  saw  a  btiirdly  man  come  along  the  passage,  he 
would  instinctively  draw  himself  up,  measure  his  ima- 
ginary antagonist,  and  forecast  how  he  would  deal  with 
him,  his  hands  meanwhile  condensmg  into  fists,  and 
tending  to  "  square."  He  must  have  been  a  hard  hitter 
if  he  boxed  as  he  preached— what  "  The  Fancy  "  would 
Gall  **  an  ugly  customet** 
2 


i8  TRab  ano  bis  jfcfenos. 

looked  at  James,  and  said,  "  When  ? "  *'  To 
morrow,"  said  the  kind  surgeon — a  man  ol 
few  words.  She  and  James  and  Rab  and  I 
retired.  I  noticed  that  lie  and  she  spoke 
little,  but  seemed  to  anticipate  everything  in 
each  other.  The  following  day,  at  noon,  the 
students  came  in,  hurrying  up  the  great  stair. 
At  the  first  landing-place,  on  a  small  well- 
known  black  board,  was  a  bit  of  paper  fastened 
by  wafers,  and  many  remains  of  old  wafers 
beside  it  On  the  paper  were  the  words, — • 
**  An  operation  to-day.     J.  B.  Clerk, ^* 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure  good 
places :  in  they  crowded,  full  of  interest 
and  talk.  "What's  the  case?"  "Which 
side  is  it  ?  " 

Don't  think  them  heartless  ;  they  are  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  you  or  I :  they  get  over 
their  professional  horrors,  and  into  their  proper 
work  ;  and  ia  them  pity — as  an  emotion^  ending 
in  itself  or  at  best  in  tears  and  a  long-drawn 
breath,  lessens,  while  pity  as  a  motive^  is  quick- 
ened, and  gains  power  and  purpose.  It  is 
well  for  poor  human  nature  that  it  is  so. 

The  operating  theater  is  crowded;  much 
talk  and  fun,  and  all  the  cordiality  and  stir  ol 
youth.     The  surgeon  with  his  staff  of  assistants 


b  there.  In  comes  Ailie :  one  look  at  hef 
quiets  and  abates  the  eager  students.  That 
beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for  them ; 
they  sit  down,  and  are  dumb,  and  gaze  at  her. 
These  rough  boys  feel  the  power  of  her  pres- 
ence. She  walks  in  quickly,  but  without 
haste ;  dressed  in  her  mutch,  her  neckerchief, 
her  white  dimity  short-gown,  her  black  bom- 
bazeen  petticoat,  showing  her  white  worsted 
Stockings  and  her  carpet-shoes.  Behind  her 
was  James  with  Rab.  James  sat  down  in  the 
distance,  and  took  that  huge  and  noble  head 
between  his  knees.  Rab  looked  perplexed 
and  dangerous  ;  forever  cocking  his  ear  and 
dropping  it  as  fast 

Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid  herself 
on  the  table,  as  her  friend  the  surgeon  told 
her;  arranged  herself,  gave  a  rapid  look  at 
James,  shut  her  eyes,  rested  herself  on  me, 
and  took  my  hand.  The  operation  was  at 
once  begun;  it  was  necessarily  slow;  and 
chloroform — one  of  God's  best  gifts  to  his 
suffering  children — was  then  unknown.  The 
surgeon  did  his  work.  The  pale  face  showed 
its  pain,  but  was  still  and  silent  Rab's  soul 
was  working  within  him ;  he  saw  that  some- 
thing strange  was  going  on, — blood  flowing 


trom  his  mistress,  and  she  suffering;  hti 
ragged  ear  was  up,  and  importunate;  he 
growled  and  gave  now  and  then  a  sharp  im- 
patient yelp;  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
done  something  to  that  man.  But  James  had 
him  firm,  and  gave  him  a  glower  from  time  to 
time,  and  an  intimation  of  a  possible  kick  ; — 
all  the  better  for  James,  it  kept  his  eye  and  his 
mind  off  Ailie. 

11  is  over :  she  is  dressed,  steps  gently  and 
decently  down  from  the  table,  looks  for  James ; 
then,  turning  to  the  surgeon  and  the  students 
she  curtsies, — and  in  a  low,  clear  voice,  begs 
their  pardon  if  she  has  behaved  ill.  The 
students — all  of  us — wept  like  children  ;  the 
surgeon  happed  her  up  carefully, — and,  resting 
on  James  and  me,  Ailie  went  to  her  room,  Rab 
following.  We  put  her  to  bed.  James  took  off 
his  heavy  shoes,  crammed  with  tackets,  heel- 
capt  and  toe-capt,  and  put  them  carefully 
under  the  table,  saying,  "  Maister  John,  I'm 
for  nane  o'  yer  strynge  nurse  bodies  for  Ailie. 
I'll  be  her  nurse,  and  I'll  gang  aboot  on  my 
stockin'  soles  as  canny  as  pussy."  And  so  he 
did ;  and  handy  and  clever,  and  swift  and 
tender  as  any  woman,  was  that  horny-handed, 
«nelL  peremptory  little  man.    Everything  she 


TRab  anO  bla  3Frlen06.  n 

got  he  gave  her  :  he  seldom  slept ;  and  oftea 
I  saw  his  small  shrewd  eyes  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, fixed  on  her.  As  before,  they  spoke 
little. 

Rab  behaved  well,  never  moving,  showing 
us  how  meek  and  gentle  he  could  be,  and 
occasionally,  in  his  sleep,  letting  us  know  that 
he  was  demolishing  some  adversary.  He  took 
a  walk  with  me  every  day  generally  to  the 
Candlemaker  P.ow;  but  he  v/as  somber  and 
mild ;  declined  doing  battle,  though  some  fit 
cases  offered,  and  indeed  submitted  to  sundry 
indignities  ;  and  Vv^as  always  very  ready  to  turn, 
and  came  faster  back,  and  trotted  up  the  stair 
with  much  lightness,  and  went  straight  to  that 
door. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with  her 
weather-worn  cart,  to  Howgate,  and  had  doubt- 
less her  own  dim  and  placid  meditations  and 
confusions,  on  the  absence  of  her  master  and 
^ab,  and  her  unnatural  freedom  from  the  road 
and  her  cart. 

For  some  days  Ailie  did  well.  The  wound 
healed  "  by  the  first  intention  ;  "  for  as  James 
said,  "  Oor  Ailie's  skin's  ower  clean  to  beil.** 
The  students  came  in  quiet  and  anxious,  and 
surrounded   her  bed.     She  said  she  liked  to 


22  "Kab  anD  bis  fticn^s* 

see  their  young,  honest  faces.  The  surgeon 
dressed  her,  and  spoke  to  her  in  his  own 
short  kind  way,  pitying  her  through  his  eyes, 
Rab  and  James  outside  the  circle, — Rab  being 
now  reconciled,  and  even  cordial,  and  having 
made  up  his  mind  that  as  yet  nobody  required 
worrying,  but,  as  you  may  suppose,  semper 
paratus. 

So  far  well  t  but ,  four  days  after  the  opera« 
tion,  riiy  patient  had  a  sudden  and  long  shiv- 
ering, a  "  groosin',"  as  she  called  it.  I  saw 
her  soon  after ;  her  eyes  were  too  bright,  her 
cheek  colored  ;  she  was  restless,  and  ashamed 
of  being  so ;  the  balance  was  lost ;  mischief 
had  begun.  On  looking  at  the  wound,  a  blush 
of  red  told  the  secret :  her  pulse  was  rapid, 
her  breathing  anxious  and  quick,  she  wasn't 
herself,  as  she  said,  and  was  vexed  at  her  rest- 
lessness. We  tried  what  we  could.  James 
did  everything,  was  everywhere ;  never  in  the 
way,  never  out  of  it ;  Rab  subsided  under  the 
table  into  a  dark  place,  and  was  motionless, 
all  but  his  eye,  which  followed  every  one. 
Ailie  got  worse  ,  began  to  wander  in  her  mind, 
gently ;  was  more  demonstrative  in  her  ways 
to  James,  rapid  in  her  questions,  and  sharp  at 
times.     He  was  vexed,  and  said,   "She  was 


TRab  anD  bis  S'ctenDs, 

n€ver  that  way  afore ;  no,  never."  For  a  time 
she  knew  her  head  was  wrong,  and  was  always 
asking  our  pardon — the  dear,  gentle  old 
woman  :  then  delirium  set  in  strong,  without 
pause.  Her  brain  gave  way,  and  then  cam^ 
that  terrible  spectacle, 

"  The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way ;  " 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms,  stop- 
ping suddenly,  mingling  the  Psalms  of  DaviJ, 
and  the  diviner  words  of  his  Son  and  Lord, 
with  homely  odds  ^nd  ends  and  scraps  cl 
ballads. 

Nothing  more  tcuciung,  or  in  a  sense  more 
strangely  beautiful,  did  I  ever  witness.  Her 
tren  .ulous,  rapid,  affectionate,  eager,  Scotch 
voice, — the  swift,  aimless,  bewildered  mind, 
the  baffled  utterance,  the  bright  and  perilous 
eye ;  some  wild  words,  some  household  cares- 
something  for  James,  the  names  of  the  dead, 
Rab  called  rapidly  and  in  a  "  fremyt  "  voic  , 
and  he  starting  up,  surprised,  and  slinking  off 
as  if  he  were  to  blame  somehow,  or  had  been 
dreaming  he  heard.  Many  eager  questionj 
and  beseechings  which  James  and  I  could  malsO 
nothing  of,  and  on  which  she  seeined  to  set  her 


«4  IKab  anD  bis  ^dcnDs. 

all,  and  then  sink  back  ununderstood.  It  vraa 
very  sad,  but  better  than  many  things  that  are 
not  called  sad.  James  hovered  about,  put  out 
and  miserable,  but  active  and  exact  as  ever ; 
read  to  her,  when  there  was  a  lull,  short  bits 
from  the  Psalms,  prose  and  meter,  chanting  the 
latter  in  his  own  rude  and  serious  way,  showing 
great  knowledge  of  the  fit  words,  bearmg  up 
like  a  man,  and  doating  over  her  as  his  "  ain 
Ailie."  "  Ailie,  ma  woman  1 "  "  Ma  ain  bonnio 
wee  dawtie ! " 

The  end  was  drawing  on  :  the  golden  bowl 
was  breaking ;  the  silver  cord  was  fast  being; 
loosed — that  ani^nila  blandula,  vaguHa,  hospes^ 
covtesqiie^  was  about  to  flee.  The  body  and 
the  soul — companions  for  sixty  years — were 
being  sundered,  and  taking  leave.  She  was 
v/alking,  alone,  through  the  valley  of  that 
shadow,  into  which  one  day  we  must  all  enter, 
— and  yet  she  was  not  alone,  for  we  know 
v/hose  rod  and  staff  were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen,  quiet,  and  as  we 
hoped,  asleep;  her  eyes  were  shut.  We  put 
down  the  gas,  and  sat  watching  her.  Suddenly 
she  sat  up  in  bed,  and  taking  a  bedgown  which 
was  lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she  held  it  eagerly  to 
her  breast, — to  the  right  side.     We  could  see 


'Ra&  and  bla  jfcienC>0«  2% 

her  eyes  bright  with  a  surprising  tenderness 
and  joy,  bending  over  this  bundle  of  clothes. 
She  held  it  as  a  woman  holds  her  sucking 
child ;  opening  out  her  night-gown  impatiently, 
and  holding  it  close,  and  brooding  over  it,  and 
murmuring  foolish  little  words,  as  over  one 
whom  his  mother  comforteth,  and  who  sucks 
and  is  satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  and  strange 
to  see  her  wasted  dying  look,  keen  and  yet 
vague — her  immense  love. 

**  Preserve  me  1 "  groaned  James,  giving 
way.  And  then  she  rocked  back  and  forward, 
as  if  to  make  it  sleep,  hushing  it,  and  wasting 
on  it  her  infinite  fondness.  "Wae's  me, 
doctor ;  I  declare  she's  thinkin'  it's  that  bairn.** 
**What  bairn?"  "The  only  bairn  we  ever 
had ;  our  wee  Mysie,  and  she's  in  the  King- 
dom, forty  years  and  main"  It  was  plainly 
true :  the  pain  in  the  breast,  telling  its  urgent 
story  to  a  bewildered,  ruined  brain,  was 
misread  and  mistaken  ;  it  suggested  to  her  the 
uneasiness  of  a  breast  full  of  milk,  and  then 
the  child  ;  and  so  again  once  more  they  were 
together,  and  she  had  her  ain  wee  Mysie  ia 
her  bosom. 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  ripidly :  tha 
delirium  left  her ;  but,  as  she  whispered,  sha 


f6  Kab  anD  bis  f  iicuD», 

was  "  clean  silly ; "  it  was  the  lightening  befora 
the  final  darkness.  After  having  for  some 
time  lain  still — her  eyes  shut,  she  said 
**  James  !  "  He  came  close  to  her,  and  lifting 
up  her  calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave  him 
a  long  look,  turned  to  me  kindly,  but  shortly, 
looked  for  Rab  but  could  not  see  him,  then 
turned  to  her  husband  again,  as  if  she  would 
never  leave  off  looking,  shut  her  eyes,  and  com- 
posed herself.  She  lay  for  some  time  breath- 
ing quick,  and  passed  away  so  gently,  that  when 
we  thought  she  was  gone,  James,  in  his  old- 
fashioned  way,  held  the  mirror  to  her  fuce. 
After  a  long  pause,  one  small  spot  of  dimness 
was  breathed  out ;  it  vanished  away,  and  never 
returned,  leaving  the  blank  cleat  darkness  of 
the  mirror  without  a  stain.  "What  is  our 
life  ? ''  it  is  even  a  vapor,  which  appeareth 
for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake  and 
motionless  ;  he  cam  forward  beside  us :  Ailie's 
hand,  which  James  had  held,  was  hanging 
down ;  it  was  soaked  with  his  tears ,  Rab 
licked  it  all  over  carefully,  looked  at  her^  and 
returned  to  his  place  under  the  table. 

James  and  I  sat,  I  don't  know  how  long,  but 
for  some  time, — saying  nothing :  he  starte<i  up 


TRab  an5  bis  jfrien^s.  27 

abruptly,  and  with  some  noise  went  to  the 
table,  and  putting  his  right  fore  and  middlQ 
fingers  each  into  a  shoe,  pulled  them  out,  and 
put  them  on,  breaking  one  of  the  leather 
latchets,  and  muttering  in  anger,  •*  I  never  did 
the  like  o'  that  afore  I  " 

I  believe  he  never  did ;  nor  after  eithen 
•*  Rab  1 "  he  said  roughly,  and  pointing  with 
his  thumb  to  the  bottom  of  the  bed.  Rab  leapt 
up,  and  settled  himself ;  his  head  and  eyes  to 
the  dead  face.  "  Maister  John,  ye'll  wait  for 
me,"  said  the  carrier ;  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness,  thundering  downstairs  in  his  heavy 
shoes.  I  ran  to  a  front  window :  there  he  waS| 
already  round  the  house,  and  out  at  the  gate^ 
fleeing  like  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid  % 
so  I  sat  down  beside  Rab,  and  being  wearied, 
fell  asleep.  I  awoke  from  a  sudden  noise  out- 
side. It  was  November,  and  there  had  beea 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  Rab  was  m  statu  quo ; 
he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly  knew  it,  but 
never  moved.  I  looked  out ;  and  there,  at  the 
gate,  in  the  dim  mommg — ^tor  the  sun  was  not 
up,  was  Jess  and  the  cart, — a  cloud  of  steam 
rising  from  the  old  mare.  I  did  not  see  James  5 
be  was  already  at  the  door,  and  came  up  tli6 


28  IRab  anD  bis  3PdcnD0» 

stairs,  and  met  me.  It  was  less  than  threfl 
hours  since  he  left,  and  he  must  have  posted 
out — who  knows  how  ? — to  Howgate,  full  nine 
miles  off ;  yoked  Jess,  and  driven  her  aston* 
ished  into  town.  He  had  an  armful  of  blank- 
ets, and  was  streaming  with  perspiration.  He 
nodded  to  me,  spread  out  on  the  floor  two 
pairs  of  clean  old  blankets  having  at  their 
corners,  "A.  G.,  1796,'*  in  large  letters  in  red 
worsted.  These  were  the  initials  of  Alison 
Graeme,  and  James  may  have  looked  m  at 
her  from  without — himself  unseen  but  not 
unthought  of — when  he  was  "wat,  wat,  and 
weary,"  and  after  having  walked  many  a  mile 
over  the  hills,  may  have  seen  her  sitting,  while 
"  a*  the  lave  were  sleepin'; '"  and  by  the  fire- 
.ight  working  her  name  on  the  blankets,  for 
her  ain  Jameses  bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking  his 
wife  in  his  arms,  laid  her  in  the  blankets,  and 
happed  her  carefully  and  firmly  up,  leaving 
the  face  uncovered  ;  and  then  lifting  her,  he 
nodded  again  sharply  to  me,  and  with  a 
resolved  but  utterly  miserable  face,  strode 
along  the  passage,  and  downstairs,  followed 
by  Rab.  I  followed  with  a  light ;  but  he  didn't 
nee4  it.    I  went  out,  holding  stupidly  tha 


IRab  an&  bt6  ^'rienOs*  29 

candle  in  my  hand  in  the  calm  frosty  air;  we 
were  soon  at  the  gate.  I  could  have  helped 
him,  but  1  saw  he  was  not  to  be  meddled  with, 
Rnd  he  was  strong,  and  did  not  need  it.  He 
laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as  safely,  as  he  had 
lifted  her  out  ten  days  before — as  tenderly  as 
when  he  had  her  first  in  his  arms  when  she 
was  only  "  A.  G.," — sorted  her,  leaving  that 
beautiful  sealed  face  open  to  tL*i  heavens ;  and 
then  taking  Jess  by  the  head,  ^e  moved  away. 
He  did  not  notice  me,  neither  did  Rab,  who 
Presided  behind  the  cart. 

I  C^jood  till  they  passed  through  the  long 
sliadow  of  the  College,  and  turned  up  Nicolson 
Street.  I  heard  the  solitary  cart  sound  through 
the  streets,  and  die  ?»>way  anu  come  again  ;  and 
I  returned,  thinking  of  that  company  going  up 
Libberton  Brae,  .hen  along  Roslin  Muir,  the 
morning  light  touching  the  Pentlands  and  mak- 
ing them  like  on-looking  ghosts  ;  then  down 
the  hill  tLfough  Auchindinny  woods,  past 
"  haunted  Woodhouselee ;  "  and  as  daybreak 
came  sweeping  up  the  bleak  Lammermuirs,  and 
fell  on  his  own  door,  the  company  would  stop, 
and  *ames  would  take  the  key,  and  lift  Ailie 
up  again,  laying  her  on  her  own  bed.  and,  hav- 


JO  1Ra&  atiD  bis  jfrtenDs. 

ing  put  Jess  up,   would  return  with  Rab  aid 
shut  the  door. 

James  buried  his  wife,  with  his  neighbors 
mourning,  Rab  inspecting  the  solemnity  from 
a  distance.  It  was  snow,  and  that  black  ragged 
hole  would  look  strange  in  the  midst  of  the 
swelling  spotless  cushion  of  white.  James 
looked  after  everything  ;  then  rather  suddenly 
fell  ill,  and  took  to  bed ;  was  insensible  when 
the  doctor  came,  and  soon  died.  A  sort  of  low 
fever  was  prevailing  in  the  village,  and  his 
want  of  sleep,  his  exhaustion,  and  his  misery^ 
made  him  apt  to  take  it.  The  grave  was  not 
difficult  to  re-open.  A  fresh  fall  of  snow  had 
again  made  all  things  white  and  smooth  ;  Rab 
once  more  looked  on,  and  slunk  home  to  the 
stable. 

And  what  of  Rab  ?  I  asked  for  him  next 
week  at  the  new  carrier  who  got  the  goodwill 
of  James's  business,  and  was  now  master  of 
Jess  and  her  cart.  "  How's  Rab  ?  "  He  put 
me  off,  and  said  rather  rudely,  "  What's  your 
business  wi'  the  dowg  ?  "  I  was  not  to  be  so 
put  off.  "  Where's  Rab  ? "  He,  getting  con- 
fused and  red,  and  intermeddling  with  his  hair, 
said    "  'Deed,    sir,    Rab's    deid."     "  Dead  I 


"Kab  anD  bis  jfrienDs,  ^i 

what  did  he  die  of  ? "  "  Weel,  sir,"  said  he 
getting  redder,  "  he  didna  exactly  dee ;  he  was 
killed.  I  had  to  brain  him  wi'  a  rack-pin ; 
there  was  nae  doin*  wi'  him.  He  lay  in  the 
treviss  wi'  the  mear,  and  wadna  come  oot.  I 
tempit  him  wi*  kail  and  meat,  but  he  wad  tak 
naething,  and  keepit  me  frae  feedin'  the  beast, 
and  he  was  aye  gur  gurrin*,  and  grup  gruppin* 
me  by  the  legs.  I  was  laith  to  make  awa  wi' 
the  auld  dowg,  his  like  wasna  atween  this  and 
Thornhill, — but,  'deed,  sir,  I  could  do  naething 
else."  I  believed  him.  Fit  end  for  Rab,  quick 
and  complete.  His  teeth  and  his  friends  gone, 
why  should  he  keep  the  peace,  and  be  civil  ? 

He  was  buried  in  the  braeface,  near  the 
bum,  the  children  of  the  village,  his  compan- 
ions, who  used  to  make  very  free  with  him 
and  sit  on  his  ample  stomach,  as  he  lay  half 
asleep  at  the  door  in  the  sun^watching  the 
solemnity. 


[Note.— The  separate  publication  of  this  sketch  wa« 
forced  u|>on  me  by  the  "  somewhat  free  use  "  made  of 
it  in  a  second  and  thereby  enlarged  edition  of  the 
•  little  book  "  to  which  I  owe  my  introduction  to  Mar- 
jorie  Fleming, — but  nothing  more, — a  "  use  "  so  ex- 
ceedingly "  free  "  as  to  extend  almost  to  everything 
with  which  I  had  ventured  perhaps  to  encumber  the 
letters  and  journals  of  that  dear  child.  To  be  called 
"^kind  and  genial  "  by  the  individual  who  devised  this 
edition  has,  strange  as  he  may  think  it,  altogether 
failed  to  console  me.  Empty  praise  without  the  solid 
pudding  is  proverbially  a  thing  of  naught ;  but  what 
shall  we  say  of  praise  the  emptiness  of  which  is  aggra- 
vated not  merely  by  the  absence,  but  by  the  actual 
abstraction  of  the  pudding  ? 

This  little  act  of  conveyancing — this  "  engaging  com- 
pilation," as  he  would  have  called  it — puts  me  in  mind 
of  that  pleasant  joke  Li  the  preface  to  "  Essays  by  Mr. 
Goldsmith  "  :  "  I  would  desire  in  this  case  to  imitate 
that  fat  man  whom  I  have  somewhere  heard  of  in  a 
shipwreck,  who,  when  the  sailors,  pressed  by  famine, 
■were  taking  slices  from  his  body^  to  satisfy  their 
hunger,  insisted,  with  great  justice*  on  having  the  first 
cut  for  himftfilf.*' 


MAKJUKJE   FLEMING. 


no 

MISS  FLEMING, 

7#  catfiiw^z  I  am  indebted  for  all  its  Maisfi^. 
THIS   MEMORIAL 

IMT   ««•   DfiAS   AND   UNFO»OOTV«8« 

M AIDIF 

^  grui£/7*lly  insi.y-ibcd. 


MARJORIE  FLEMING. 

One  November  afternoon  in  1810 — the  year 
in  which  Waverky  was  resumed  and  laid  aside 
again,  to  be  finished  off,  its  last  two  volumes 
in  three  weeks,  and  made  immortal  in  18 14, 
and  when  its  author,  by  the  death  of  Lord 
Melville,  narrowly  escaped  getting  a  civil 
appointment  in  India — three  men,  evidently 
lawyers,  might  have  been  seen  escaping  like 
school-boys  from  the  Parliament  House,  and 
speeding  arm-in-arm  down  Bank  Street  and  the 
Mound,  in  the  teeth  of  a  surly  blast  of  sleet. 

The  three  friends  sought  the  Meld  of  the 
low  wall  old  Edinburgh  boys  remember  well, 
and  sometimes  miss  now,  as  they  struggle  with 
the  stout  west  wind. 

The  three  were  curiously  unlike  each  other. 
One,  "  a  little  man  of  feeble  make,  who  would 
be  unhappy  if  his  pony  got  beyond  a  foot 
pace,"  slight,  with  "small,  elegant  features, 
hectic  cheek,  and  soft  hazel  eyes,  the  index  of 

1% 


|6  /JBarjorjc  ificmmg. 

the  quick,  sensitive  spirit  within,  as  if  he  had 
the  warm  heart  of  a  woman,  her  genuine  en- 
thusiasm, and  some  of  her  weaknesses."  An- 
other, as  unlike  a  woman  as  a  man  can  be; 
homely,  almost  common,  in  look  and  figure; 
his  hat  and  his  coat,  and  indeed  his  entire 
covering,  worn  to  the  quick,  but  all  of  the  best 
material ;  what  redeemed  him  from  vulgarity 
and  meanness  were  his  eyes,  deep  set,  heavily 
thatched,  keen,  hungry,  shrewd,  with  a  slum- 
bering glow  far  in,  as  if  they  could  be  danger- 
ous ;  a  man  to  care  nothing  for  at  first  glance, 
but  somehow,  to  give  a  second  and  not-for- 
getting look  at.  The  third  was  the  biggest  o! 
the  three,  and  though  lame,  nimble,  and  all 
rough  and  alive  with  power;  had  you  met  him 
anywhere  else,  you  would  say  he  was  a  Lid- 
desdale  store-farmer,  come  of  gentle  blood  ;  "  a 
stout,  blunt  carle,"  as  he  says  of  himself,  with 
the  swing  and  stride  and  the  eye  of  a  man  of 
the  hills, — a  large,  sunny,  out-of-door  air  all 
about  him.  On  his  broad  and  somewhat  stoop- 
ing shoulders,  was  set  that  head  which,  with 
Shakesf>eare's  and  Bonaparte's  is  the  best 
known  in  all  the  world. 

He  was  in  high  spirits,  keeping  his  compan- 
ions and  himself  in  roars  of  laughtera  aadeveijf 


/IBarjode  Fleming.  3^ 

now  and  then  seizing  them,  and  stopping,  thai 
they  might  take  their  fill  of  the  fun  ;  there 
they  stood  shaking  with  laughter,  "  not  an  inch 
of  their  body  free  "  from  its  grip.  At  George 
Street  they  parted,  one  to  Rose  Court,  behind 
St.  Andrew's  Church,  one  to  Albany  Street, 
the  other,  our  big  and  limping  friend,  to  Castle 
Street. 

We  need  hardly  give  their  names.  The  first 
was  William  Erskine,  afterwards  Lord  Kin- 
nedder,  chased  out  of  the  world  by  a  calumnyj 
killed  by  its  foul  breath, — 

"  And  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a  strife 
Slipped  in  a  moment  out  of  life." 

There  is  nothing  in  literature  more  beautifuj 
or  more  pathetic  than  Scott's  love  and  sorro"w 
for  this  friend  of  his  youth. 

The  second  was  William  Clerk, — the  Darsit 
Latimer  oi  Redgau7itlet ; '■'' 2.  man,"  as  Scott 
says,  "  of  the  most  acute  intellects  and  power- 
ful apprehension,"  but  of  more  powerful  indo- 
lence, so  as  to  leave  the  world  with  little  more 
than  the  report  of  what  he  might  have  been, — 
a  humorist  as  genuine,  though  not  quite  so 
savagely  Swiftian  ^s  his  brother,  Lord  Eldin, 


38  flSarjocfe  jfleminQ. 

neither  of  whom  had  much  of  that  commonest 
and  best  of  all  the  humors,  called  good. 

The  third  we  all  know.  What  has  he  not 
done  for  every  one  of  us  ?  Who  else  ever, 
except  Shakespeare,  so  diverted  mankind,  en- 
tertained and  entertains  a  world  so  liberally, 
so  wholesomely  ?  We  are  fain  to  say,  not  even 
Shakespeare,  for  his  is  something  deeper  than 
diversion,  something  higher  than  pleasure,  and 
yet  who  would  care  to  split  this  hair  ? 

Had  any  one  watched  him  closely  before 
and  after  the  parting,  what  a  change  he  would 
see  !  The  bright,  broad  laugh,  the  shrewd, 
jovial  word,  the  man  of  the  Parliament  House 
and  of  the  world ;  and  next  step,  moody,  the 
light  of  his  eye  withdrawn,  as  if  seeing  things 
that  were  invisible  ;  his  shut  mouth,  like  a 
child's,  so  impressionable,  so  innocent,  so  sad; 
he  was  now  all  within,  as  before  he  was  all 
without;  hence  his  brooding  look.  As  the 
snow  blattered  in  his  face,  he  muttered,  "  How 
it  raves  and  drifts !  On-ding  o*  snaw, — ay, 
that's  the  word, — on-ding — ".  He  was  now  at 
his  own  door,  "  Castle  Street,  No.  39."  He 
opened  the  door,  and  went  straight  to  his  den ; 
tnat  wondrous  workshop,  where,  in  one  year, 
'^823,  when  he  was  fifty-two,  he  wrote  FeverU 


/Bbatjorlc  iflemlnfi.  39 

of  the  Peak  ^  Queniin  Durward^zxA  St,  Ronan^s 
Welly  besides  much  else.  We  once  took  the 
foremost  of  our  novelists,  the  greatest,  we 
would  say,  since  Scott,  into  this  room,  and 
could  not  but  mark  the  solemnizing  effect  of 
sitting  where  the  great  magician  sat  so  often 
and  so  long,  and  looking  out  upon  that  little 
shabby  bit  of  sky  and  that  back  green,  where 
faithful  Camp  lies.* 

He  sat  down  in  his  large  green  morocco  el- 
bow-chair, drew  himself  close  to  his  table,  and 
glowered  and  gloomed  at  his  writing  apparatus, 
"a  very  handsome  old  box,  richly  carved, 
lined  with  crimson  velvet,  and  containing  ink- 
bottles,  taper-stand,  etc.,  in  silver,  the  whole 
in  such  order,  that  it  might  have  come  from 
the  silversmith's  window  half  an  hour  before.** 
He  took  out  his  paper,  then  starting  up  angrily, 


*  This  favorite  dog  "died  about  January,  1809  and 
was  buried  in  a  fine  moonlight  night  in  the  little  garden 
behind  the  house  in  Castle  Street.  My  wife  tells  me 
she  remembers  the  whole  family  in  tears  about  the 
grave  as  her  father  himself  smoothed  the  turf  above 
Camp,  with  the  saddest  face  she  had  ever  seen.  He 
had  been  engaged  to  dine  abroad  that  day,  but  apolo- 
gized, on  account  of  the  death  of  *  a  dear  old  friend.'  * 
— LOCKHAB-T'S  Life  of  Scott. 


40  iliac  jorte  if  lemma. 

said, "  *  Go  spin,  you  jade,  go  spin/    No^  d— i^ 
it  won't  do, — 

*  My  spinnin'  wheel  is  auld  and  stifE, 
The  rock  o't  wunna  stand,  sir, 
To  keep  the  temper-pin  in  tiff 
Employs  ower  aft  my  hand,  sir.* 

I  am  off  the  fang.*  I  can  make  nothing  of 
Waverley  to-day ;  I'll  awa*  to  Marjorie.  Come 
wi'  me,  Maida,  you  thief."  The  great  creature 
rose  slowly,  and  the  pair  were  off,  Scott  taking 
a  maud  (a  plaid)  with  him.  "  White  as  a 
frosted  plum-cake,  by  jingo  I  "  said  he,  when 
he  got  to  the  street.  Maida  gambolled  and 
whisked  among  the  snow,  and  her  master  strode 
across  to  Young  Street,  and  through  it  to  \ 
North  Charlotte  Street,  to  the  house  of  \m 
dear  friend,  Mrs.  William  Keith,  of  Corstor 
phine  Hill,  niece  of  Mrs.  Keith,  of  Ravelstoa 
of  whom  he  said  at  her  death,  eight  years 
after,  "  Much  tradition,  and  that  of  the  best, 
has  died  with  this  excellent  old  lady,  one  o£ 
the  few  persons  whose  spirits  and  cleanliness 
and  freshness  of  mind  and  body  made  old  a^ 
lovely  and  desirable," 

Sir  Walter  was  in  that  house  almost  everjl' 

*  Applied  to  a  pump  when  it  is  dry,  and  its  valve  has 
fest  its  **fang  *' ;  from  the  German  /an^cn,  to  bold. 


/fcaciocie  sflemfng.  41 

day,  and  had  a  key,  so  in  he  and  the  hound 
went,  shaking  themselves  in  the  lobby.  "  Mar- 
jorie  !  Marjorie  I  "  shouted  her  friend,  "  where 
are  ye,  my  bonnie  wee  croodlin  doo?  "  In  a 
moment  a  bright,  eager  child  of  seven  was  in 
his  arms,  and  he  was  kissing  her  all  over. 
Out  came  Mrs.  Keith.  "  Come  yer  ways  in, 
Wattie."  "  No,  not  now.  I  am  going  to  take 
Marjorie  wi'  me,  and  you  may  come  to  your 
tea  in  Duncan  Roy's  sedan,  and  bring  the 
bairn  home  in  your  lap."  "  Tak'  Marjorie,  and 
it  on-ding  d*  sfiaw  f  "  said  Mrs.  Keith.  He 
said  to  himself,  "  On-ding, — that's  odd, — that 
is  the  very  word.'*  "  Hoot,  awa  !  look  here,'' 
and  he  displayed  the  corner  of  his  plaid,  made 
to  hold  lambs  (the  true  shepherd's  plaid, 
consisting  of  two  breadths  sewed  together, 
and  uncut  at  one  end,  making  a  poke  or  ad 
'de  sac),  "Tak'  yer  lamb,"  said  she,  laughing 
U  the  contrivance,  and  so  the  Pet  was  first 
well  happit  up,  and  then  put,  laughing  silently, 
into  the  plaid  neuk,  and  the  shepherd  strode  oif 
with  his  lamb, — Maida  gambolling  through 
the  snow,  and  running  races  in  her  mirth. 

Didn't  he  face  the  "  angry  airt,"  and  make 
her  bield  his  bosom,  and  into  his  own  room 
with  her,  and  lock  the  door,  and  out  with  tha 


4t  Aarjorie  Fleming. 

warm,  rosy,  little  wifie,  who  took  it  all  with 
great  composure!  There  the  two  remained 
for  three  or  more  hours,  making  the  house 
ring  with  their  laughter;  you  can  fancy  the 
big  man's  and  Maidie's  laugh.  Having  made 
the  fire  cheer}%  he  set  her  down  in  his  ample 
chair,  and  standing  sheepishly  before  her  he 
began  to  say  his  lesson,  which  happened  to 
be,— "  Ziccotty  diccotty,  dock,  the  mouse  ran 
op  the  clock,  the  clock  struck  wan,  down  the 
mouse  ran,  ziccotty,  diccotty,  dock."  This 
done  repeatedly  till  she  was  pleased,  she  gave 
bim  his  new  lesson,  gravely  and  slowly,  timing 
it  upon  her  small  fingers, — he  saying  it  after 
her, — 

**  Wonery,  twoery,  tickery,  seven ; 
Alibi,  crackaby,  ten,  and  eleven 
Pin,  pan,  musky,  dan  ; 
Tweedle-um,  twoddle-um ; 
Twenty-wan ;  eerie,  orie,  ourie, 
You,  are,  out.'* 

He  pretended  to  great  difficulty  and  she 
rebuked  him  with  the  most  comical  gravity, 
treating  him  as  a  child.  He  used  to  say  that 
when  he  came  to  Alibi  Crackaby  he  broke 
down,  and  Pin-Pan,  Musky-Dan,  Tweedle-um 
Twoddlfr-um  made  him  roar  with  laughtei; 


/IBarjotie  flcminQ,  43 

fts  "said  Musky-Dan  especially  was  beyond 
endurance,  bringing  up  an  Irishman  and  his 
hat  fresh  from  the  Spice  Islands  and  odor- 
iferous Ind;  she  getting  quite  bitter  in  her 
displeasure  at  his  ill-behavior  and  stupidness. 
Then  he  would  read  ballads  to  her  in  his 
own  glorious  way,  the  two  getting  wild  with 
excitement  over  Gil  Morrice  or  the  Baron  of 
Smailholm ;  and  he  would  take  her  on  his 
knee,  and  make  her  repeat  Constance's 
speeches  in  King  JoJm^  till  he  swayed  to  and 
fro,  sobbing  his  fill.  Fancy  the  gifted  little 
creature,  like  one  possessed,  repeating, — 

**  For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears, 
Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of  fearsi 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears; 
A  woman,  naturally  bom  to  fears.'* 

*  If  thou  that  bidst  me  be  content,  wert  griaib 
Ugly  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  woml»^ 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious — ■** 

Or,    drawing    herself    up    "to   the   height  of 
her  great  argument," — 

"  I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud. 

For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stooL 

Here  I  and  sorrow  sit." 

Scott  used  to  say  that  he  was  amazed  at  her 
power  over  him,  saying  to  Mrs.  Keith,  "  She's 


(4  /E^arjortc  Fleming. 

the  most  extraordinary  creature  I  ever  met 
with,  and  her  repeating  of  Shakespeare  over- 
powers me  as  nothing  else  does." 

Thanks  to  the  unforgetting  sister  of  this 
dear  child,  who  has  much  of  the  sensibihty 
and  fun  of  her  who  has  been  in  her  small 
grave  these  fifty  and  more  years,  we  have  now 
before  us  the  letters  and  journals  of  Pet 
Marjorie, — before  us  lies  and  gleams  her  rich 
brown  hair,  bright  and  sunny  as  if  yesterday's, 
with  the  words  on  the  paper,  "  Cut  out  in  her 
last  illness,"  and  two  pictures  of  her  by  her 
beloved  Isabella,  whom  she  worshiped;  there 
are  the  faded  old  scraps  of  paper,  hoarded 
still,  over  which  her  warm,  breath  and  her 
warm  little  heart  had  poured  themselves; 
^ere  is  the  old  water-mark,  "Lingard,  1808." 
The  two  portraits  are  very  like  each  other, 
but  plainly  done  at  different  times  ;  it  is  a 
chubby,  healthy  face,  deep-set,  brooding  eyes, 
as  eager  to  tell  what  is  going  on  within  as  to 
gather  in  all  the  glories  from  v/ithout;  quick 
with  the  wonder  and  the  pride  of  life ;  they 
are  eyes  that  would  not  be  soon  satisfied 
with  seeing;  eyes  that  would  devour  their 
object,  and  yet  childlike  and  fearless ;  and 
tlxat  is  a  mouth  that  will  not  be  sooa  satisfied 


flRarjorte  3fleming.  45 

with  love  ;  it  has  a  curious  likeness  to  Scott's 
own,  which  has  always  appeared  to  us  his 
sweetest,  most  mobile  and  speaking  feature. 

There  she  is,  looking  straight  at  us  as  she 
did  at  him, — fearless  and  full  of  love,  pas- 
sionate, wild,  willful,  fancy's  child.  One  can- 
not  look  at  it  without  thinking  of  Wordsworth's 
lines  on  poor  Hartley  Coleridge  : — 

**  O  blessed  vision,  happy  child  ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 
I  thought  of  thee  with  many  fears, 
Of  what  might  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 
I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy  guest. 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality ; 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover  !  ne'er  at  rest. 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 
Oh,  too  industrious  folly! 
Oh,  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  I 
Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite, 
Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight 
Preserve  for  thee  by  individual  right, 
A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown  flock.** 

And  we  can  imagine  Scott,  when  holding  his 
warm,  plump  little  playfellow  in  his  arms, 
repeating  that  stately  friend's  lines  : — 

**  Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild, 
And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her, 
To  dignify  arch  iQoks  and  laughing  eyes. 


46  iBbarjorie  jfleming. 

And  feats  of  cunning ;  and  the  pretty  round 

Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 

Mock  chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 

And,  as  a  fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 

Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone, 

Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered  rounds 

And  take  delight  in  its  activity, 

Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 

Is  all  suflScient ;  solitude  to  her 

Is  blithe  society ;  she  fills  the  air 

With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs." 

But  we  will  let  her  disclose  herself.  We 
need  hardly  say  that  all  this  is  true,  and  that 
these  letters  are  as  really  Marjorie's  as  was 
this  light  brown  hair  ;  indeed,  you  could  as 
easily  fabricate  the  one  as  the  other. 

There  was  an  old  servant,  Jeanie  Robertson, 
who  was  forty  years  in  her  grandfather's  family, 
Majorie  Fleming,  or,  as  she  is  called  in  the 
letters,  and  by  Sir  Walter,  Maidie,  was  the  last 
child  she  kept.  Jeanie's  wages  never  exceeded 
£2f  a  year,  and,  when  she  left  service,  she  had 
saved  £^o.  She  was  devotedly  attached  to 
Maidie,  rather  despising  and  ill-using  her  sister 
Isabella, — a  beautiful  ar.d  gentle  child.  This 
partiality  made  Maidie  apt  at  times  to  domi- 
neer over  Isabella.  "  I  mention  this  "  (writes 
her  surviving  sister)  **  for  the  purpose  of  tell* 


flbarjorie  Fleming.  49 

Ing  you  an  instance  of  Maidie's  generous  just- 
ice. When  only  five  years  old,  when  walking 
in  Raith  grounds,  the  two  children  had  run  on 
before,  and  old  Jeanie  remembered  they  might 
come  too  near  a  dangerous  mill-lade.  She 
called  to  them  to  turn  back.  Maidie  heeded 
her  not,  rushed  all  the  faster  on,  and  fell,  and 
would  have  been  lost,  had  her  sister  not  pulled 
her  back,  saving  her  life,  but  tearing  her  clothes. 
Jeanie  flew  on  Isabella  to  '  give  it  her  '  for 
spoiling  her  favorite's  dress;  Maidie  rushed 
in  between  crying  out,  *  Pay  (whip)  Maidjie 
as  much  as  you  like,  and  I'll  not  say  one  word" 
but  touch  Isy,  and  I'll  roar  like  a  bull  1  * 
Years  after  Maidie  was  resting  in  her  grave, 
my  mother  used  to  take  me  to  the  place,  and 
told  the  story  always  in  the  exact  same  words." 
This  Jeanie  must  have  been  a  character.  F'-e 
took  great  pride  in  exhibiting  Maidie's  brother 
William's  Calvinistic  acquirements,  when  nine- 
teen months  old,  to  the  officers  of  a  militia 
regiment  then  quartered  in  Kirkcaldy.  This 
performance  was  so  amusing  that  it  was  often 
repeated,  and  the  little  theologian  was  presented 
by  them  with  a  cap  and  fea^thers.  Jeanie's 
glory  was  "  putting  him  through  the  carritch  " 
(catechism)  in  broad  Scotch.  be£;inning  at  tho 


48  ^arjorle  3Flemfnfl, 

beginning  with,  "  Wha  made  ye,  ma  bonnie 
man  ?  "  For  the  correctness  of  this  and  the 
three  next  replies  Jeanie  had  no  anxiety,  but 
the  tone  changed  to  menace,  and  the  closed 
nieve  (fist)  was  shaken  in  the  child's  face  as 
she  demanded,  "  Of  what  are  you  made  ?  ** 
**  Dirt,"  was  the  answer  uniformly  given. 
**  Wull  ye  never  learn  to  say  dust,  ye  thrawn 
deevil  ? "  with  a  cuff  from  the  opened  hand, 
was  the  as  inevitable  rejoinder. 

Here  is  Maidie's  first  letter  before  she  was 
six.  The  spelling  unaltered,  and  there  are  no 
"  commoes." 

"  My  dear  Isa, — I  now  sit  down  to  answer 
all  your  kind  and  beloved  letters  which  you 
was  so  good  as  to  write  to  me.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  wrote  a  letter  in  my  Life.  There 
are  a  great  many  Girls  in  the  Square  and  they 
cry  just  like  a  pig  when  we  are  under  the  pain- 
full necessity  of  putting  it  to  Death.  Miss  Po- 
tune  a  Lady  of  my  acquaintance  praises  me 
dreadfully.  I  repeated  something  out  of  Dean 
Swift,  and  she  said  I  was  fit  for  the  stage,  and 
you  may  think  I  v/as  primmed  up  with  majes- 
tick  Pride,  but  upon  my  word  I  felt  myselfe  turn 
a  little  birsay — birsay  is  a  word  which  is  a  word 
that  William  composed  which  is  as  you  maj 


/Bartorle  ficmirxQ,  49 

suppose  a  little  enraged.  This  horrid  fat  sim' 
pliton  says  that  my  Aunt  is  beautiful!  which 
is  intirely  impossible  for  that  is  not  her  nat- 
ure." 

What  a  peppt'y  little  pen  we  wield !  What 
could  that  have  been  out  of  the  Sardonic 
Dean?  what  other  child  of  that  age  would 
have  used  "  beloved  "  as  she  does  ?  This 
power  of  affection,  this  faculty  of  Moving,  and 
wild  hunger  to  be  beloved,  comes  out  more 
and  more.  She  periled  her  all  upon  it,  and  it 
may  have  been  as  well — we  know,  indeed,  that 
it  was  far  better—  for  her  that  this  wealth  of 
love  was  so  soon  withdrawn  to  its  one  only  infi- 
nite Giver  and  Receiver.  This  must  have  been 
the  law  of  her  earthly  life.  Love  was  indeed 
"  her  Lord  and  King  " ;  and  it  was  perhaps 
well  for  her  that  she  found  so  soon  that  her 
and  our  only  Lord  and  King  Himself  is  Love. 

Here  are  bits  from  her  Diary  at  Braehead : 
— "  The  day  of  my  existence  here  has  beea 
delightful  and  enchanting.  On  Saturday  I 
expected  no  less  than  three  well  made  Bucks 
the  names  of  whom  is  here  advertised.  Mr. 
Geo.  Crakey  (Craigie),  and  Wm.  Keith  and  Jn. 
Keith — the  first  is  the  funniest  of  every  one 
of  them.  Mr.  Crakey  and  walked  to  Crakj* 
4 


5©  ^arjocfe  3f lemlnfl, 

hall  (Craigiehall)  hand  in  hand  in  InnocenoQ 
and  matitation  (meditation)  sweet  thinking 
on  the  kind  love  which  flows  in  our  tendex 
hearted  mind  which  is  overflowing  with  ma- 
jestic pleasure  no  one  was  ever  so  polite  to  me 
in  the  hole  state  of  my  existence.  Mr.  Craky 
you  must  know  is  a  great  Buck  and  pretty 
good-looking. 

**  I  am  at  Ravelston  enjoying  nature's  fresh 
air.  The  birds  are  singing  sweetly — the  calf 
doth  frisk  and  nature  shows  her  glorious  face.** 

Here  is  a  confession  : — "  I  confess  I  have 
been  very  more  like  a  little  young  divil  than  9 
creature  for  when  Isabella  went  up  stairs  to 
teach  me  religion  and  my  multiplication  and 
to  be  good  and  all  my  other  lessons  I  stamped 
with  my  foot  and  threw  my  new  hat  which  she 
had  made  on  the  ground  and  was  sulky  and 
was  dreadfully  passionate,  but  she  never 
whiped  me  but  said  Marjory  go  into  another 
room  and  think  what  a  great  crime  you  are 
committing  letting  your  temper  git  the  better 
of  you.  But  I  went  so  sulkily  that  the  Devil 
got  the  better  of  me  but  she  never  never 
never  whips  me  so  that  I  think  I  would  be  the 
better  of  it  and  the  next  time  that  I  behave  iU 
I  think  she  shouJjd  do  it  for  she  aevtr  does  it 


^arjorte  ffUmtnfl.  ji 

,  ♦  ,  .  Isabella  has  given  me  praise  for  check- 
ing my  temper  for  I  was  sulky  even  when  she 
was  kneeling  an  hole  hour  teaching  me  to 
write." 

Our  poor  little  wifie,  she  Las  no  doubts  of 
the  personality  of  the  Devil !  "  Yesterday  I 
behave  extremely  ill  in  God's  most  holy  church 
for  I  would  never  attend  myself  nor  let  Isa- 
bella attend  which  was  a  great  crime  for  she 
often,  often  tells  me  that  when  to  or  three  are 
geathered  together  God  is  in  the  midst  of  them, 
and  it  was  the  ver}'  same  Divil  that  tempted  Job 
that  tempted  me  I  am  sure ;  but  he  resisted 
Satan  though  he  had  boils  and  many  many  other 

misfortunes  which  I  have  escaped I  am 

now  going  to  tell  you  thehorible  and  wretched 
plaege  (plague)  that  my  multiplication  gives 
me  you  can't  conceive  it  the  most  Devilish 
thing  is  8  times  8  and  7  times  7  it  is  what 
nature  itself  cant  endure." 

This  is  delicious  ;  and  what  harm  is  there 
in  her  "  Devilish  "  ?  it  is  strong  language 
merely  ?  even  old  Rowland  Hill  used  to  say 
"  he  grudged  the  Devil  those  rough  and  ready 
words."  "  I  walked  to  that  delightful  place 
Crakyhall  with  a  delightful  young  man  beloved 
by  aU  txis  friends  especially  by  me  his  loveresib 


52  /Bbactorte  I'lcmina. 

but  I  must  not  talk  any  more  about  hi  a  for 
Isa  said  it  is  not  proper  for  to  speak  of  ger.tal* 
men  but  I  will  never  forget  him  !....!  ai-a 
very  very  glad  that  satan  has  not  given  me  boils 
and  many  other  misfortunes — In  the  holy 
bible  these  words  are  written  that  the  Devil 
goes  like  a  roaring  lyon  in  search  of  his  pray 
but  the  lord  lets  us  escape  from  him  but  we  " 
\pauvre petite  I)  "  do  not  strive  with  this  aw- 
full  Spirit.  ....  To-day  I  pronunced  a  wovd 
which  should  never  come  out  of  a  lady*s  lips 
it  was  that  I  called  John  a  Impudent  Bitch. 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  made  me  in  so  bad 
a  humor  is  I  got  one  or  two  of  that  bad  bad 
in  a  (senna)  tea  to-day," — a  better  excuse  for 
bad  humor  and  bad  language  than  most. 

She  has  been  reading  the  Book  of  Esther ! 
**  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  that  Haman  was 
hanged  on  the  very  gallows  which  he  had  pre- 
pared for  Mordeca  to  hang  him  and  his  ten 
sons  thereon  and  it  was  very  wrong  and  cruel 
to  hang  his  sons  for  they  did  not  commit  the 
crime  ;  but  then  fcsu^  was  not  then  come  to  teach 
us  to  be  merciful'^  This  is  wise  and  beautiful. 
— has  upon  it  the  very  dew  of  youth  and  of 
holiness.  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and 
sucklings  He  perfects  his  praise. 


fflyarjorie  Fleming,  53 

••This  IS  Saturday  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it 
because  I  have  play  half  the  Day  and  I  get 
money  too  but  alas  I  owe  Isabella  4  pence  for 
I  am  finned  2  pence  whenever  I  bite  my  nails. 
Isabella  is  teaching  me  to  make  simme  colings 
nots  of  interrigations  peorids  coramoes,  etc. . , 
As  this  is  Sunday  I  will  meditate  upon  Sen- 
ciable  and  Religious  subjects.  First  I  should 
be  very  thankful  I  am  not  a  begger.'^ 

This  amount  of  meditation  and  thankfulness 
seems  to  have  been  all  she  was  able  for, 

"  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  a  delightfull 
place,  Braehead  by  name,  belonging  to  Mrs. 
Crraford,  where  there  is  ducks  cocks  hens 
bubblyjocks  2  dogs  2  cats  and  swine  which  is 
delightful.  I  think  it  is  shocking  to  think  that 
the  dog  and  cat  should  bear  them  "  (this  is 
a  meditation  physiological),  "  and  they  are 
drowned  after  all.  I  would  rather  have  a  man 
dog  than  a  woman-dog,  because  they  do  not 
bear  like  women -dogs  ;  it  is  a  hai  d  case — it 
is  shocking.  I  cam  here  to  enjoy  natures 
delightful  breath  it  is  svv'eeter  than  a  fial 
(phial)  of  rose  oil.'* 

Braehead  is  the  farm  the  historical  Jock 
Howison  asked  and  got  from  our  gay  James 
Ibe  Fifth,  "  the  gudeman  o'  Ballengiech,"  as  a 


54  /ffiariorte  ^icmtng. 

reward  for  the  services  of  his  flail  when  thm 
King  had  the  worst  of  it  at  Cramond  Brig  with 
the  gypsies.  The  farm  is  unchanged  in  size 
from  that  time,  and  still  in  the  unbroken  line 
of  the  ready  and  victorious  thrasher.  Brae- 
head  is  held  on  the  condition  of  the  possessor 
being  ready  to  present  the  King  with  a  ewer 
and  basin  to  wash  his  hands,  Jock  having  done 
this  for  his  unknown  king  after  the  splore^  and 
when  George  the  Fourth  came  to  Edinburgh 
this  ceremony  was  performed  in  silver  at  Holy- 
rood.  It  is  a  lovely  neuk  this  Braehead, 
preserved  almost  as  it  was  two  hundred  years 
ago.  "Lot  and  his  wife,"  mentioned  by 
Maidie, — ^two  quaintly  cropped  yew-trees,— = 
still  thrive ;  the  burn  runs  as  it  did  in  her  time, 
and  sings  the  same  quiet  tune, — as  much  the 
same  and  as  different  as  Now  and  Then,  The 
house  full  of  old  family  relics  and  pictures, 
the  sun  shining  on  them  through  the  small 
deep  windows  with  their  plate  glass  ;  and  there, 
blinking  at  the  sun,  and  chattering  contentedly, 
Is  a  parrot,  that  might,  for  its  looks  of  eld, 
have  been  in  the  ark,  and  domineered  over 
and  deaved  the  dove.  Everything  about  the 
place  is  old  and  fresh. 
This  is  beautiful : — "  I  am  very  sorry  to  sa| 


flbarjorie  jnemins.  55 

that  I  forgot  God — that  is  to  say  I  forgot  to 

pray  to-day  and  Isabella  told  me  that  I  should 
be  thankful  that  God  did  not  forget  me — if  he 
did,  O  what  become  of  me  if  I  was  in  danger 
and  God  not  friends  with  me — I  must  go  to 
unquenchable  fire  and  if  I  was  tempted  to 
sin — how  could  I  resist  it  O  no  I  will  never  do 
it  again — no  no — if  I  can  help  it"  (Canny 
wee  wine !  "  My  religion  is  greatly  falling 
off  because  I  dont  pray  with  so  much  attention 
when  I  am  saying  my  prayers,  and  my  char- 
ecter  is  lost  among  the  Braehead  people.  I 
hope  I  will  be  religious  again — but  as  for 
regaining  my  charecter  I  despare  for  iU** 
(Poor  little  "  habit  and  repute  I  ") 

Her  temper,  her  passion,  and  her  "  badness  '* 
are  almost  daily  confessed  and  deplored  : — 
"  I  will  never  again  trust  to  my  own  power,  for 
I  see  that  I  cannot  be  good  without  God's 
assistance — I  will  not  trust  in  my  own  selfe, 
and  Isa*s  health  will  be  quite  ruined  by  me— 
it  will  indeed.'*  "  Isa  has  giving  me  advice, 
which  is,  that  when  I  feal  Satan  beginning  to 
tempt  me,  that  I  fiea  him  and  he  would  flea 
me."  "  Remorse  is  the  worst  thing  to  bear, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  i  will  fall  a  martes 
to  it** 


0  Aarlorfc  Remind* 

Poor  dear  little  sinner!— Here  comes  tha 
world  again :  "  In  my  travels  I  met  with  a 
handsome  lad  named  Charles  Balfour  Esq., 
and  from  him  I  got  ofers  of  marage — offers  of 
tnarage,  did  I  say?  Nay  plenty  heard  me." 
A  fine  scent  for  "  breach  of  promise  !  " 

This  is  abrupt  and  strong  : — "  The  Divil  is 
curced  and  all  works.  *Tis  a  fine  work 
Newton  on  the  profecies,  I  wonder  if  there  is 
another  book  of  poems  comes  near  the  Bible, 
The  Divil  always  girns  at  the  sight  of  the 
Bible."  "Miss  Potune"  (her  "simpliton** 
friend)  "  is  very  fat ;  she  pretends  to  be  very 
learned.  She  says  she  saw  a  stone  that  dropt 
from  the  skies  ;  but  she  is  a  good  Christian.*' 
Here  come  her  views  on  church  government : — 
"An  Annibabtist  is  a  thing  I  am  not  a 
member  of — I  am  a  Pisplekan  (Episcopalian) 
just  now,  and  "  (O  you  little  Laodicean  and 
Latitudinarian !)  "  a  Prisbeteran  at  Kirk- 
caldy ! " — {Blandula  /  Vagula  !  coilmn  et  ant- 
mum  mutas  quce  trans  mare  (1.  e.  trans  Bod<> 
triam)-curris  !) — "  my  native  town."  "  Senti- 
ment is  not  what  I  am  acquainted  with  as  yet, 
though  I  wish  it,  and  should  like  to  practise 
it "  (!)  "  I  wish  I  had  a  great,  great  deal  <A 
gratitude    in   my  heart,    in    all    my  body.* 


"There  is  a  new  novel  published,  named 
^ff'Control  (  Mrs.  Brunten*s) — *'  a  very  good 
^axim  forsooth  I "  This  is  shocking  :  "  Yes- 
*erday  a  marrade  man,  named  Mr.  John  Bal- 
four, Esq.,  offered  to  kiss  me,  and  offered  to 
marry  me,  though  the  man  "  (a  fine  directness 
this  !)  "  was  espused,  and  his  wife  was  present 
and  said  he  must  ask  her  permission ;  but  he 
did  not.  I  think  he  was  ashamed  and  con- 
founded before  3  gentelman — Mr.  Jobson  and 
2  Mr.  Kings."  "  Mr.  Banester's  (Bannister's) 
**  Budjet  is  to-night ;  I  hope  it  will  be  a  good 
one.  A  great  many  authors  have  expressed 
themselves  too  sentimentally."  You  are  right, 
Marjorie.  "A  Mr.  Burns  writes  a  beautiful 
song  on  Mr.  Cunhaming,  whose  wife  desarted 
iim — truly  it  is  a  most  beautiful  one."  "I 
like  to  read  the  Fabulous  historys,  about  the 
histerys  of  Robin,  Dickey,  flapsay,  and  Peccay, 
and  it  is  very  amusing,  for  some  were  good 
birds  and  others  bad,  but  Peccay  was  the 
most  dutiful  and  obedient  to  her  parients.** 
"Thomson  is  a  beautiful  author,  and  Pope, 
but  nothing  to  Shakespear,  of  which  I  have  a 
little  knolege.  Macbeth  is  a  pretty  compo- 
sition, but  awful  one."  "The  Newgate  Cat* 
mdcris  Yery  instructive  "  (!)    **  A  sailor  called 


5l  ^ariorie  Jfleming. 

here  to  say  farewell ;  it  must  be  dreadful  tt 
leave  his  native  country  when  he  might  get  a 
wife;  or  perhaps  me,  for  I  love  him  very 
much.  But  O  I  forgot,  Isabella  forbid  me  to 
speak  about  love."  This  antiphlogistic  regi- 
men and  lesson  is  ill  to  learn  by  our  Maidie, 
for  here  she  sins  again :  *'  Love  is  a  very 
papithatick  thing"  (it  is  almost  a  pity  to 
correct  this  into  pathetic),  "  as  well  as 
troublesome  and  tiresome — ^but  O  Isabella 
forbid  me  to  speak  of  it."  Here  are  her 
reflections  on  a  pine-apple  :  "  I  think  the  price 
of  a  pine-apple  is  very  dear :  it  is  a  whole 
bright  goulden  guinea,  that  might  have  sus- 
tained a  poor  family."  Here  is  a  new  vernal 
simile :  "  The  hedges  are  sprouting  like  chicks 
from  the  eggs  when  they  are  newly  hatched  or, 
as  the  vulgar  say,  clacked.*^  **  Doctor  Swift's 
works  are  very  funny  ;  I  got  some  of  them  by 
heart."  "  Moreheads  sermons  are  I  hear  much 
praised,  but  I  never  read  sermons  of  any 
kind ;  but  I  read  novelettes  and  my  Bible,  and 
I  never  forget  it,  or  my  prayers."  Bravo 
Marjorie ! 

She  seems  now,  when  still  about  six,  tc  have 
broken  out  into  song :— 


■ephibol   (epigram     or     epitaph— who    knows 
which  ?)  on  my  dear  love  isabella, 

*  Here  lies  sweet  Tsabell  in  bed 
With  a  night-cap  on  her  head; 
Her  skin  is  soft,  her  face  is  fair. 
And  she  has  very  pretty  hair ; 
She  and  I  in  bed  lies  nice, 
And  undisturbed  by  rats  or  mice 
She  is  disgusted  with  Mr.  Worgan, 
Though  he  plays  upon  the  organ. 
Her  nails  are  neat,  her  teeth  are  whit^ 
Her  eyes  are  very,  very  bright, 
In  a  conspicuous  town  she  lives, 
And  to  the  poor  her  money  gives: 
Here  ends  sweet  Isabella's  story, 
And  may  it  be  much  to  her  glory.** 

Here  are  some  bits  at  random  :  ^ 

•Of  summer  I  am  very  fond. 
And  love  to  bathe  into  a  pond ; 
The  look  of  sunshine  dies  away, 
And  will  not  let  me  out  to  play; 
1  love  the  morning's  sun  to  spy 
Glittering  through  the  casement's  eye. 
The  rajrs  of  light  are  very  sweet, 
And  puts  away  the  taste  of  meat ; 
The  balmy  breeze  comes  down  from  hcavow  ^ 
AikI  makes  us  like  for  to  be  living." 

^The  casawary  is  an  curious  bird,  and  so  it 


the  gigantic  crane,  and  the  pelican  of  the 
wilderness,  whose  mouth  holds  a  bucket  of 
fish  and  water.  Fighting  is  what  ladies  is 
not  qualyfied  for,  they  would  not  make  a 
good  figure  in  battle  or  in  a  duel.  Alas !  we 
females  are  of  little  use  to  our  country.  The 
history  of  all  the  malcontents  as  ever  was 
hanged  is  amusing/  Still  harping  on  the 
Newgate  Calendar  I 

** Braehead  is  extremely  pleasant  to  me  by 
the  companie  of  swine,  geese,  cocks,  etc*  and 
they  are  the  delight  of  my  soul." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  a  melancholy 
story.  A  young  turkie  of  2  or  3  months  old, 
would  you  believe  it,  the  father  broke  its  leg, 
and  he  killed  another  I  I  thin?i  he  ought  to  be 
transported  or  hanged." 

"  Queen  Street  is  a  very  gay  one,  and  so  la 
Princes  Street,  for  all  the  lads  and  lasses, 
besides  bucks  and  beggars,  parade  there." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  a  play  very  much,  for 
I  never  saw  one  in  all  my  life,  and  don't 
believe  I  ever  shall ;  but  I  hope  I  can  be 
content  without  going  to  one.  I  can  be  quite 
happy  without  my  desire  being  granted." 

"  Some  days  ago  Isabella  had  a  terrible  fit 
of  the  toothake,  and  she  walked  with  a  long 


/tfcarjode  aflemln^.  6t 

Bight-shift  at  dead  of  night  like  a  ghost,  and  I 
thought  she  was  one.  She  prayed  for  nat- 
ure's sweet  restorer — balmy  sleep — but  did 
not  get  it — a  ghostly  figure  indeed  she  was, 
enough  to  make  a  saint  tremble.  It  made  me 
quiver  and  shake  from  top  to  toe.  Supersti- 
tion is  a  very  mean  thing,  and  should  be 
despised  and  shunned." 

Here  is  her  weakness  and  her  strength 
Igain  : — "  In  the  love-novels  all  the  heroines 
ire  very  desperate.  Isabella  will  not  allow 
me  to  speak  about  lovers  and  heroins,  and  it 
is  too  refined  for  my  taste."  "  Miss  Egward's 
(Edgeworth's)  tails  are  very  good,  particularly 
some  that  are  very  much  adapted  for  youth  (!) 
as  Laz  Laurance  and  Tarelton,  False  Keys, 
etc.  etc." 

**  Tom  Jones  and  Gray*s  Elegey  in  a  country 
churchyard  are  both  excellent,  and  much  spoke 
of  by  both  sex,  particularly  by  the  men."  Are 
our  Marjories  nowadays  better  or  worse 
because  they  cannot  read  Tom  Jones  un- 
harmed ?  More  better  than  worse  ;  but  who 
among  them  can  repeat  Gray's  Lines  on  a 
Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  as  could  our 
Maidie  ? 

Here  is  ftome  mo^^  of  herpratU«  ;  *^  I  went 


62  ^atjorle  ^flcmtng. 

into  Isabella's  bed  to  make  her  smile  like  the 
Genius  Demedicus"  (the  Venus  de  Medicis) 
**  or  the  statute  in  an  ancient  Greece,  but  she 
fell  asleep  in  my  very  face,  at  which  my  anger 
broke  forth,  so  that  I  awoke  her  from  a 
comfortable  nap.  All  was  now  hushed  up 
again,  but  again  my  anger  burst  forth  at  hes 
biding  me  get  up." 

She  begins  thus  loftily,— 

*'  Death  the  righteous  love  to  see. 
But  from  it  doth  the  wicked  flee.** 

Then    suddenly    breaks    off    (as    if    witll 

laughter), — 

*  I  am  sure'they  fly  as  fast  as  their  legs  C€in  carry  them  I* 

"  There  is  a  thing  I  love  to  see, 
That  is  our  monkey  catch  a  flee." 

"  I  love  in  Isa's  bed  to  lie, 
Ch,  such  a  joy  and  luxury ! 
The  bottom  of  the  bed  I  sleep, 
And  with  great  care  within  I  creepj 
Oft  I  embrace  her  feet  of  lillys, 
But  she  has  goten  all  the  pUlya. 
Her  neck  I  never  can  embrace, 
But  I  do  hug  her  feet  in  place<." 


^arioric  jfleming.  6^ 

How  childish  and  yet  how  strong  and  free  is 
her  use  of  words  ! — "  I  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  because  Isabella  said  I  disturbed  her  by 
continial  fighting  and  kicking,  but  I  was  very 
dull,  and  continially  at  work  reading  the 
Arabian  Nights,  which  I  could  not  have  done 
If  I  had  slept  at  the  top.  I  am  reading  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  I  am  much  interested 
fei  the  fate  of  poor,  poor  Emily." 

Here  is  one  of  her  swains  : — 

**  Very  soft  and  white  his  cheeks. 
His  hair  is  red,  and  grey  his  breeks; 
His  tooth  is  like  the  daisy  fair. 
His  only  fault  is  in  his  hair." 

This  is  a  higher  flight : — 

"•  Dedicated  to  Mrs.  H.  Crawford  by  the  Autroi^ 

M.  R 
•  Three  turkeys  fair  their  last  have  breathed. 
And  now  this  world  forever  leaved ; 
Then-  father,  and  their  mother  too, 
They  sigh  and  weep  as  well  as  you  ; 
Indeed,  the  rats  their  bones  have  crundb/tdf 
Into  eternity  theire  laanched. 
A  airetui  death  indeed  they  had. 
As  wad  put  any  parent  mad  ; 
But  she  was  more  than  usual  calflB* 
She  did  not  give  a  single  dam.**  i 


^4  /SDartorie  fficmmjj.. 

This  last  word  is  saved  from  all  sin  by  its 
tender  age,  not  to  speak  of  the  want  of  the  n. 
We  fear  "  she  '*  is  the  abandoned  mother,  in 
spite  of  her  previous  sighs  and  tears. 

"  Isabella  says  when  we  pray  we  should 
pray  fervently,  and  not  rattel  over  prayer^- 
for  that  we  are  kneeling  at  the  footstool  of  our 
Lord  and  Creator,  who  saves  us  from  e'lerual 
damnation,  and  from  unquestionable  fi^e  and 
brimston." 

She  has  a  long  poem  on  Mary  Queen  dk 
Scots : — 

*•  Queen  Mary  was  much  loved  by  all, 

Both  by  the  great  and  by  the  small, 
But  hark!  her  soul  to  heaven  doth  risel 
And  I  suppose  she  has  gained  a  prize— 
For  I  do  think  she  would  not  go 
Into  the  axvfid  place  below ; 
There  is  a  thing  that  I  must  tell, 
Elizabeth  went  to  fire  and  hell ; 
He  who  would  teach  her  to  be  civUt 
It  must  be  her  great  friend  the  divill** 

She  hits  off  Darnley  well : — 
•*  A  noble's  son,  a  handsome  lad, 
Bv  some  queer  way  or  other,  had 
Got  quite  the  better  ot  her  heart. 
With  him  she  always  talked  apart ; 
Silly  he  was,  but  very  fair, 
A  greater  buck  was  not  toun4  th«gtb.*^ 


^atjorie  3fiemms.  65 

•*  By  some  queer  way  or  other  "  ;  is  not  this 
the  general  case  and  the  mystery,  young  ladies 
and  gentj^men  ?  Goethe's  doctrine  of  "  elec- 
tive affinities  "  discovered  by  our  Pet  Maidi^ 

Sonnet  to  a  Monkey. 

•  O  lively,  O  most  charming  pug 

Thy  graceful  air,  and  heavenly  mug  ; 
The  beauties  of  his  mind  do  shine. 
And  every  bit  is  shaped  and  fine. 
Your  teeth  are  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Your  a  great  buck,  your  a  great  beau  5 
Your  eyes  are  of  so  nice  a  shape, 
Iklore  like  a  Christian's  than  an  apej 
Your  cheek  is  like  the  rose's  blume. 
Your  hair  is  like  the  raven's  plume ; 
His  nose's  cast  is  of  the  Roman, 
He  is  a  very  pretty  woman. 
I  could  not  get  a  rhyme  for  Roman, 
So  was  obliged  to  call  him  woman." 

This  last  joke  is  good.  She  repeats  it  wheo 
writing  of  James  the  Second  being  killed  at 
£x)xburgh : — 

*  He  was  killed  by  a  cannon  splinter, 
Quite  in  the  middle  of  the  winter  ; 
Perhaps  it  was  not  at  that  time. 
But  I  can  get  no  other  rhyme  1 " 

Here  is  one  of  her  last  letters,  dated  Kixk* 
oddy,  1 2th  October,  181 1.    You  can  see  how 
S 


66  ilBarjorle  iflemina. 

her  nature  is  deepening  and  enriching  : — "  Ml 
Dear  Mother, — You  will  think  that  I  entirely 
forget  you  but  I  assure  you  that  you  are 
greatly  mistaken.  I  think  of  you  always  and 
often  sigh  to  think  of  the  distance  between 
us  two  loving  creatures  of  nature.  We  have 
regular  hours  for  all  our  occupations  first  at  7 
o'clock  we  go  to  the  dancing  and  come  home 
at  8  we  then  read  our  Bible  and  get  our  repeat- 
ing and  then  play  till  ten  then  we  get  our 
music  till  II  when  we  get  our  writing  and 
accounts  we  sew  from  12  till  i  after  which  I 
get  my  gramer  and  then  work  till  five.  At 
7  we  come  and  knit  till  8  when  we  dont  go  to 
the  dancing.  This  is  an  exact  description. 
I  must  take  a  hasty  farev/ell  to  her  whom  I 
love,  reverence  and  doat  on  and  who  I  hope 
thinks  the  same  of 

"MARjory  Fleming. 
**  P.  S, — An  old  pack  of  ^cards  (!)  would  be 
very  exeptible." 

This  other  is  a  month  earlier : — "  My  dear 
LITTLE  Mama, — I  was  truly  happy  to  hear  that 
you  were  all  well.  We  are  surrounded  with 
measles  at  present  on  every  side,  for  the 
Herons  got  it,  and  Isabella  Heron  was  near 
Death's  Door,  and  one  night  her  father  lifted 


her  out  of  bed,  and  she  fell  down  as  they 
thought  lifeless.  Mr.  Heron  said,  *That 
lassie's  deed  noo' — *  I'm  no  deed  yet.'  She 
then  threw  up  a  big  worm  nine  inches  and  a 
half  long.  I  have  begun  dancing,  but  am  not 
very  fond  of  it,  for  the  boys  strikes  and  mocks 
me. — I  have  been  another  night  at  the  dancing ; 
I  like  it  better,  I  will  write  to  you  as  often  as 
I  can  ;  but  I  am  afraid  not  every  week.  I  long 
for  you  with  the  longings  of  a  child  to  embract 
you — to  fold  you  in  my  arms,  I  respect  you  with 
all  the  respect  due  to  a  mother.  You  don^t  k7iou, 
kow  I  love  you.  So  I  shall  remain  your  loving 
child— lA,  Fleming." 

What  rich  involution  of  love  in  the  v/ords 
marked  !  Here  are  some  lines  to  her  beloved 
Isabella,  in  July,  181 1  : — 

*  There  is  a  thing  that  I  do  want, 

With  you  these  beauteous  walks  to  haoBtt 

IVe  could  be  happy  if  you  would 

Try  to  come  over  if  you  could. 

Then  I  would  all  quite  happy  be 

Now  and  for  all  eternity. 

yjiy  mother  is  so  very  sweet. 

And  checks  my  appetite  to  eat; 

My  father  shows  us  what  to  do; 

But  O  I'm  sure  that  I  want  yoo» 


I  have  no  more  of  poetiy  j 

O  Isa  do  remember  me. 

And  try  to  iove  your  Marjoiy.* 

In  a  letter  from  "  Isa  "  to 

"  Miss  Muff  Maidie  Marjory  Fleming 
favored  by  Rare  Rear-Admiral  Fleming." 

she  says  :  **  I  long  much  to  see  you,  and  talk 
over  all  our  old  stories  together,  and  to  hear 
you  read  and  repeat.  I  am  pining  for  my 
Did  friend  Cesario,  and  poor  Lear,  and  wicked 
Richard.  How  is  the  dear  Multiplication  table 
going  on  ?  are  you  still  as  much  attached  to  9 
times  9  as  you  used  to  be  ?  " 

But  this  dainty,  bright  thing  is  about  to 
flee, — to  come  "quick  to  confusion."  The 
measles  she  writes  of  seized  her,  and  she  died 
on  the  19th  of  December,  181 1.  The  day 
before  her  death,  Sunday,  she  sat  up  in  bed, 
worn  and  thin,  her  eye  gleaming  as  with  the 
light  of  a  coming  world,  and  with  a  tremulous, 
old  voice  repeated  the  following  lines  by 
Bums, — heavy  with  the  shadow  of  death,  and 
lit  with  the  fantasy  of  the  judgment-seat, — the 
publican's  prayer  in  paraphrase  : — 

**  Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  ot  oieasmg  charms? 


fioarjorie  ^ieming.  6^ 

Some  drops  of  joy,  with  draughts  of  ill  between. 
Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  renewing  stormt. 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt  my  terrors  are  in  arms; 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

**  Fain  would  I  say,  forgive  my  foul  offense, 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey; 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense^ 
Again  I  might  forsake  fair  virtue's  way. 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray, 
Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man. 

Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray. 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan, 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to  temptatKWi  tWf 

"  O  thou  great  Governor  of  all  below, 
If  I  might  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  b\09i 
And  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  seaj 
With  that  controlhng  power  assist  even  me 
Those  headstrong  furious  passions  to  confine, 

For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed  line  ; 
O  aid  me  with  thy  help,  Omnipotence  Divine." 

It  is  more  affecting  than  we  care  to  say  to 
read  lier  mother's  and  Isabella  Keith's  letters 
written  immediately  after  her  death.  Old  and 
withered,  tattered  and  pale,  they  are  now :  but 


70  ^arjocie  ^icmim* 

when  you  read  them,  how  quick,  how  throbbing 
with  life  and  love !  how  rich  in  that  language 
of  affection  which  only  women,  and  Shake- 
speare, and  Luther  can  use, — that  power  of 
detaining  the  soul  over  the  beloved  object  and 
its  loss. 

'*Jsr.  Philip  to  Constance, 

You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 
Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child. 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  % 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts. 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form. 
Then  I  have  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief," 

What  variations  cannot  love  play  on  this  one 
string ! 

In  her  first  letter  to  Miss  Keith,  Mrs.  Flem- 
ing says  of  her  dead  Maidie  : — "  Never  did  I 
behold  so  beautiful  an  object.  It  resembled 
the  finest  wax-work.  There  was  in  the  coun- 
tenance an  expression  of  sweetness  and  se- 
renity which  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  pure 
spirit  had  anticipated  the  joys  of  heaven  ere 
it  quitted  the  mortal  frame.  To  tell  you  what 
your  Maidie  said  of  you  would  fill  volumes ; 
for  you  was  the  constant  theme  of  her  dis- 
course, the  subject  of  her  thoughts,  and  rulef 


/Bbarjorfe  Fleming.  71 

of  her  actions.  The  last  time  she  mentioned 
you  was  a  few  hours  before  all  sense  save 
that  of  suffering  was  suspended,  when  she 
said  to  Dr.  Johnstone,  *  If  you  will  let  me 
out  at  the  New  Year,  I  will  be  quite  con- 
tented.* I  asked  what  made  her  so  anxious 
to  get  out  then.  *  I  want  to  purchase  a  New 
Year's  gift  for  Isa  Keith  with  the  sixpence 
you  gave  me  for  being  patient  in  the  measles ; 
and  I  would  like  to  choose  it  myself.'  I  do 
not  remember  her  speaking  afterwards,  except 
to  complain  of  her  head,  till  just  before  she 
expired,  when  she  articulated,  *  O  mother : 
mother  1 " ' 

Do  we  make  too  much  of  this  little  child, 
who  has  been  in  her  grave  in  Abbotshall  Kirk- 
yard  these  fifty  and  more  years  ?  We  may  of 
her  cleverness, — not  of  her  affectionateness, 
her  nature.  What  a  picture  the  anhnosa  iu' 
fans  gives  us  of  herself,  her  vivacity,  her  pas- 
sionateness,  her  precocious  love-making,  her 
passion  for  nature,  for  swine,  for  all  living 
things,  her  reading,  her  turn  for  expression, 
her  satire,  her  frankness,  her  little  sins  and 
rages,  her  great  repentances !  We  don't 
wonder  Walter  Scott  carried  her  off  in  the 


j2  /HSarjorfe  ^Icming^ 

neuk  of  his  plaid,  and  played  himself  with  h& 
for  hours. 

The  year  before  she  died,  when  in  Edin- 
burgli,  she  was  at  a  Twelfth  Night  supper  at 
Scott's,  in  Castle  Street.  The  company  had 
all  come, — all  but  Marjorie.  Scott's  familiars, 
-whom  we  all  know,  were  there, — all  were  come 
"but  Marjorie  ;  and  all  were  dull  because  Scott 
was  dull.  "  Where's  that  bairn  ?  what  can 
liave  come  over  her?  I'll  go  myself  and  see." 
And  he  was  getting  up,  and  would  have  gone ; 
Tvhen  the  bell  rang,  and  in  came  Duncan  Roy 
and  his  henchman  Tougald,  with  the  sedan 
chair,  which  was  brought  right  into  the  lobby, 
and  its  top  raised.  And  there,  in  its  dark- 
ness and  dingy  old  cloth,  sat  Maidie  in  white, 
her  eyes  gleaming,  and  Scott  bending  over  her 
in  ecstasy, — "  hung  over  her  enamored."  "  Sit 
ye  there,  my  dautie,  till  they  all  see  you  ; "  and 
forthwith  he  brought  them  all.  You  can  fancy 
the  scene.  And  he  lifted  her  up  and  marched 
to  his  seat  with  her  on  his  stout  shoulder,  and 
set  her  down  beside  him ;  and  then  began  the 
night,  and  such  a  night !  Those  who  knew 
Scott  best  said,  that  night  was  never  equalled; 
Maidie  and  he  were  the  stars ;  and  she  gave 
them   Constance's    speeches    and  Helvellyn^ 


/Rarjode  jflcmfnfl,  73 

Jie  ballad  then  much  in  vogue,  and  all  het 
rkperioirey — Scott  showing  her  off,  and  being 
ofttimes  rebuked  by  her  for  his  intentional 
blunders. 

We  are  indebted  for  the  following — and  out 
readers  will  be  not  unwilling  to  share  our  ob- 
ligations— to  her  sister : — "  Her  birth  was  15th 
January,  1803  ;  her  death  19th  December,  181 1, 
I  take  this  from  her  Bibles.*  I  believe  she 
•was  a  child  of  robust  health,  of  much  vigor  o£ 
body,  and  beautifully  formed  arms,  and  until 
her  last  illness,  never  was  an  hour  in  bed. 
She  was  niece  to  Mrs.  Keith,  residing  in  No, 
I  North  Charlotte  Street,  who  was  not  Mrs. 
Murray  Keith,  although  very  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  that  old  lady.  My  aunt  was  a 
daughter  of  Mr.  James  Rae,  surgeon,  and  mar- 
ried the  younger  son  of  old  Keith  of  Ravel- 
stone.  Corstorphine  Hill  belonged  to  my  aunt's 
husband ;  and  his  eldest  son,  Sir  Alexander 
Keith,  succeeded  his  uncle  to  both  Ravelstone 
and  Dunnottar.  The  Keiths  were  not  con- 
nected by  relationship  with  the  Howisons  of 

•  **  Her  Bible  is  before  me  j  a  pair^  as  then  called ;  the 
feded  marks  are  just  as  she  placed  them.  "Hiiere  isoiM 
9k  Da?id'9  lament  over  Jonathan,** 


74  il^ariorie  flcminQ* 

Braehead;  but  my  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother (who  was),  a  daughter  of  Cant  of  Thurs- 
ton and  Giles-Grange,  were  on  the  most  in- 
timate footing  with  our  Mrs.  Keith*s  grand- 
father  and  grandmother;  and  so  it  has  been 
for  three  generations,  and  the  friendship  con 
summated  by  my  cousin  William  Keith  marry- 
ing Isabella  Craufurd. 

"  As  to  my  aunt  and  Scott,  they  were  on  a 
very  intimate  footing.  He  asked  my  aunt  to 
be  godmother  to  his  eldest  daughter  Sophia 
Charlotte.  I  had  a  copy  of  Miss  Edgeworth's 
*  Rosamond,  and  Harry  and  Lucy,  for  long 
which  was  *a  gift  to  Marjorie  from  Walter 
Scott,'  probably  the  first  edition  of  that  attract- 
ive series,  for  it  wanted  *  Frank,'  which  is  al- 
ways now  published  as  part  of  the  series,  un* 
der  the  title  of  Early  Lessons.  I  regret  to  say 
these  little  volumes  have  disappeared." 

"  Sir  Walter  was  no  relation  of  Marjorie's, 
but  of  the  Keiths,  through  the  Swintons  ;  and, 
like  Marjorie,  he  stayed  much  at  Ravelstone 
in  his  early  days,  with  his  grand-aunt  Mrs. 
Keith ;  and  it  was  while  seeing  him  there  as  a 
boy,  that  another  aunt  of  mine  composed, 
when  he  was  about  fourteen,  the  lines  prog- 
Dosticatingr    his    future    fame   that   Lockharj 


^acjcrie  Fleming.  75 

tscribes  in  his  Life  to  Mrs.  Ccckburn,  au- 
thoress of  '  The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  * : — 

Go  on,  dear  youth,  the  glorious  path   pursue 

Which  bounteous  Nature  kindly  smooths  for  yottj 

Go  bid  the  seeds  her  hands  have  sown  arise. 

By  timely  culture,  to  their  native  skies  ; 

Go,  and  employ  the  poet's  heavenly  art, 

Not  merely  to  delight,  but  mend  the  heart.*' 

Mrs.  Keir  was  my  aunt's  name,  another  o! 
Dr.  Rae*s  daughters."  We  cannot  better  end 
than  in  words  from  this  same  pen  : — "  I  have 
to  ask  you  to  forgive  my  anxiety  in  gathering 
up  the  fragments  of  Marjorie's  last  days,  but 
I  have  an  almost  sacred  feeling  to  all  that  per- 
tains to  her.  You  are  quite  correct  in  stating 
that  measles  were  the  cause  of  her  death.  My 
mother  was  struck  by  the  patient  quietness 
manifested  by  Marjorie  during  this  illness, 
unlike  her  ardent,  impulsive  nature  ;  but  love 
and  poetic  feeling  were  unquenched.  WTiea 
Dr.  Johnstone  rewarded  her  submissive- 
ness  with  a  sixpence,  the  request  speedily 
followed  that  she  might  get  out  ere  New 
Year's  day  came.  When  asked  why  she 
was  so  desirous  of  getting  out,  she  im- 
mediately rejoined,  *  Oh  I  am  so  anxioos 


yC  fiDarjorte  3flem(ng. 

to  buy  something  with  my  sixpence  for  my 
dear  Isa  Keith.*  Again,  when  lying  very  still, 
her  mother  asked  her  if  there  was  anything 
she  wished :  *  Oh  yes  !  if  you  would  just  leave 
the  room  door  open  a  wee  bit,  and  play  **  The 
Land  o'  the  Leal,"  and  I  will  lie  and  f^m^, 
and  enjoy  myself  *  (this  is  just  as  stated  to  me 
by  her  mother  and  mine).  Well,  the  happy 
day  came,  alike  to  parents  and  child,  when 
Marjorie  was  allowed  to  come  forth  from  the 
nursery  to  the  parlor.  It  was  Sabbath  even- 
ing, and  after  tea.  My  father,  who  idolized 
this  child,  and  never  afterwards  in  my  hearing 
mentioned  her  name,  took  her  in  his  armsj 
and  while  walking  her  up  and  down  the  room, 
she  said,  *  Father,  I  will  repeat  something 
^  you;  what  would  you  like?*  He  said, 
*Just  choose  yourself,  Maidie.'  She  hesitated 
for  a  moment  between  the  paraphrase, 
*  Few  are  thy  days,  and  full  of  woe  *  and  the 
lines  of  Burns  already  quoted,  but  decided 
on  the  latter,  a  remarkable  choice  for  a  child. 
The  repeating  these  lines  seemed  to  stir  up  the 
depths  of  feeling  in  her  soul.  She  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  write  a  poem  ;  there  was  a  doubt 
whether  it  would  be  right  to  allow  her,  in  fe«»i 
of  hurting  her  eyes.     She  pleaded  earnte'«»^, 


/Bbarjocic  iflcmtng.  f7 

» Just  this  once ' ;  the  point  was  yielded,  her 

date  was  given  her,  and  with  great  rapidity 
Nhe  wrote  an  address  of  fourteen  lines,  *  to  her 
loved  cousin  on  the  author's  recovery/  her  last 
work  on  earth : — 

*  Oh  I  Isa,  pain  did  visit  me, 
I  was  at  the  last  extremity ; 
How  often  did  I  think  of  you, 
I  wished  your  graceful  form  to  view. 
To  clasp  you  in  my  weak  embrace. 
Indeed  I  thought  I'd  run  my  race: 
Good  care,  I'm  sure,  was  of  me  tskeOp 
But  still  indeed  I  was  much  shaken. 
At  last  my  daily  strength  did  gain, 
And  oh  I  at  last,  away  went  pain ; 
At  length  the  doctor  thought  I  might 
Stay  in  the  parlor  all  the  night ; 
I  now  continue  so  to  do, 
Farewell  to  Nancy  and  to  you.** 

She  went  to  bed  apparently  well,  awoke  ia 
the  middle  of  the  night  with  the  old  cry  of  woe 
to  a  mother's  heart,  *  My  head,  my  he*d  I  * 
Three  days  of  the  dire  malady,  *  water  in  (ha 
head,'  followed,  and  the  end  came." 

"  Soft,  silken  primrose,  fading  timelessly." 

It  is  needless,  it  is  impossible,  to  add  any* 
tiling;  to  this  ;  the  fervor^  the  sweetness,  tbo 


'^8  /Siarjorte  f  lemina. 

flush  of  poetic  ecstasy,  the  lovely  and  glowing 
eye,  the  perfect  nature  of  that  bright  and  warm 
intelligence,  that  darling  child, — Lady  Nairne's 
words,  and  the  old  tune,  stealing  up  from  the 
depths  of  the  human  heart,  deep  calling  unto 
deep,  gentle  and  strong  like  the  waves  of  the 
great  sea  hushing  themselves  to  sleep  in  the 
dark ; — the  words  of  Bums  touching  the 
kindred  chord,  her  last  numbers  "wildly 
sweet"  traced,  with  thin  and  eager  fingers, 
already  touched  by  the  last  enemy  and  friend, 
— moriens  canity — and  that  love  which  is  so 
soon  to  be  her  everlasting  light  is  her  song's 
burden  to  the  end. 

•*  She  set  as  sets  the  morning  star,  which  goes 
Not  down  behind  the  darkened  west,  nor  hidct 
Obscured  among  the  tempests  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heavea,'* 


JEEMS  THE  DOOR-KEEPER 


JEEMS  THE  DOOR-KEEPER. 

When  my  father  was  in  Broughton  Placl» 
Church,  we  had  a  door-keeper  called  Jeems^ 
^nd  a  formidable  little  man  and  door-keeper 
he  was ;  of  unknown  age  and  name,  for  he 
existed  to  us,  and  indeed  still  exists  to  me— 
though  he  has  been  in  his  grave  these  sixteen 
years — 2is/eems,  absolute  and  per  se^  no  more 
needing  a  surname  than  did  or  do  Abraham  or 
Isaac,  Samson  or  Nebuchadnezzar.  We  young 
people  of  the  congTegation  believed  that  he 
was  out  in  the  '45,  and  had  his  drum  shot 
through  and  quenched  at  Culloden  ;  and  as 
for  any  indication  on  his  huge  and  gray  visage 
of  his  ever  having  been  young,  he  might  safely 
have  been  Bottom  the  Weaver  in  "  A  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,"  or  that  excellent,  ingeni- 
ous, and  "  wise-hearted  "  Bezaleel,  the  son  of 
Uri,  vAiomJeems  regarded  as  one  of  the  great- 
est of  men  and  of  weavers,  and  whose  "  ten 
curtains  of  fine  twined  linen,  and  blue,  and 
6  81 


82  3-ecmg  roe  2)ooc*1^eeper» 

purple,  and  scarlet,  each  of  them  with  fifty 
loops  on  the  edge  of  the  selvedge  in  the  cou- 
pling, with  their  fifty  taches  of  gold,"  he,  in 
confidential  moments,  gave  it  to  be  understood 
were  the  sacred  triumphs  of  his  craft ;  for,  as 
you  may  infer,  my  friend  was  a  man  of  the 
treadles  and  the  shuttle,  as  well  as  the  more 
renowned  grandson  of  Hur. 

Jeems^s  face  was  so  extensive,  and  met  you 
so  formidably  and  at  once,  that  it  mainly  com- 
posed his  whole ;  and  such  a  face  !  Sydney 
Smith  used  to  say  of  a  certain  quarrelesome 
man,  "  His  very  face  is  a  breach  of  the  peace.'* 
Had  he  seen  our  friend's  he  would  have  said 
he  was  the  imperative  mood  on  two  (very 
small)  legs,  out  on  business  in  a  blue  greats 
coat  It  was  in  the  nose  and  the  keen  small 
eye  that  his  strength  lay.  Such  a  nose  of 
power,  so  undeniable,  I  never  saw,  except  in 
what  was  said  to  be  a  bust  from  the  antique, 
of  Rhadamanthus,  the  well-known  Justice  Clerk 
of  the  Pagan  Court  of  Session  !  Indeed,  when 
I  was  in  the  Rector's  class,  and  watched  Jeems 
turning  interlopers  out  of  the  church  seats,  by 
merely  presenting  before  them  this  tremendous 
organ,  it  struck  me  that  if  Rhadamanthus  had 
Still  been  here,  and  out  of  employment^  he 


3-eem0  tbe  S)oot*lkeepct.  83 

would  have  taken  kindly  to /eems's  wotk^ — and 
that  possibly  he  was  that  potentate  in  a  U.  P. 
disguise. 

Nature  having  fashioned  the  huge  face,  and 
laid  out  much  material  and  idea  upon  it,  had 
finished  off  the  rest  oijeems  somewhat  scrimp* 
ly,  as  if  she  had  run  out  of  means  ;  his  legs 
especially  were  of  the  shortest,  and  as  his  usual 
dress  was  a  very  long  blue  great-coat,  made 
for  a  much  taller  man,  its  tails  resting  upon  the 
ground,  and  its  large  hind  buttons  in  a  totally 
preposterous  position,  gave  him  the  look  of 
being  planted,  or  rather  after  the  manner 
of  Milton's  beasts  at  the  creation,  in  the 
act  of  emerging  painfully  from  his  mother 
earth. 

Now,  you  may  think  this  was  a  very  ludi- 
crous old  object.  If  you  had  seen  him,  you 
would  not  have  said  so ;  and  not  only  was 
he  a  man  of  weight  and  authority, — he  was 
likewise  a  genuine,  indeed  a  deeply  spiritual 
Christian,  well  read  in  his  Bible,  in  his  own 
heart,  and  in  human  nature  and  life,  knowing 
both  its  warp  and  woof  more  peremptory  in 
making  himself  obey  his  Master  than  in  get- 
ting himself  obeyed,  and  this  is  saying  a  good 
deal :  and^  like  all   complete  men,  he  had  a 


^4  ^CCl^TS  Xbc  IJOC:-.Tw.t.i. 

genuine  love  and  gift  of  humor,*  kindly  and 
uncouth,  lurking  in  those  small,  deep-set  gray 
eyes,  shrewd  and  keen,  which,  like  two  sharp- 
est of  shooters,  enfiladed  that  massive  and 
redoubtable  bulwark,  the  nose. 

One  day  two  strangers  iriddc  themselves  over 
XoJeemsXo  be  furnished  with  seats.  Motion- 
ing them  to  follow,  he  walked  majestically  to 
the  farthest  in  corner,  where  he  had  decreed 
they  should  sit.  The  couple  found  seats  near 
the  door,  and  stepped  into  them,  leaving  Jeems 
to  march  through  the  passages  alone,  the  whole 
congregation  watching  him  with  some  relish 
and  alarm.  He  gets  to  his  destination,  opens 
the  door,  and  stands  aside ;  nobody  appears. 
He  looks  sharply  round,  and  then  gives  a  look 
of  general  wrath  "atlairge."  No  one  doubted 
his  victory.  His  nose  and  eye  fell,  or  seemed 
to  fall,  on  the  two  culprits,  and  pulled  them  out 
instantly,  hurrying  them  to   their  appointed 

*  On  one  occasion  a  descendant  of  Nabal  having  put 
a  crovm-piece  unto  "  the  plate  "  instead  of  a  penny,  and 
starting  at  its  white  and  precious  face,  asked  to  have  it 
back,  and  was  refused, — ^"  In  once,  in  forever.**  "  A 
weel,  a  weel,**  grunted  he,  "  I'll  get  credit  for  it  in 
heaven."  **  Na,  na,"  said /<?<?/« j,  "  yell  get  credit  oa^ 
(or  the  peon/  <  " 


Seema  tbe  Boor^l^eeper*  85 

place ;  Jeems  snibbed  them  slowly  in  and  gave 
them  a  parting  look  they  were  not  likely  to 
misunderstand  or  forget. 

At  that  time  the  crowds  and  the  imperfect 
ventilation  made  fainting  a  common  occurrence 
in  Broughton  Place,  especially  among  ^' that 
young  hizzles^^  as  Jeems  called  the  servant  girls. 
He  generally  came  to  me,  "  the  young  Doctor,'* 
on  these  occasions  with  a  look  of  great  relisli. 
I  had  indoctrinated  him  in  the  philosophy  of 
syncopes^  especially  as  to  the  propriety  of  laying 
the  "  /lizzies  "  quite  flat  on  the  floor  of  the  lobby, 
with  the  head  as  low  as  the  rest  of  the  body; 
and  as  many  of  these  cases  were  owing  to  wkat 
/eems  called  "  that  bitter  yerkin  "  of  their  bod* 
ices,  he  and  I  had  much  satisfaction  in  reliev- 
ing them,  and  giving  them  a  moral  lesson,  by 
cutting  their  stay-laces,  which  ran  before  the 
knife,  and  cracked  "  like  a  bowstring,"  as  my 
coadjutor  said.  One  day  a  young  lady  was 
our  care.  She  was  lying  out,  and  slowly  com- 
ing to.  /eemSy  with  that  huge  terrific  visage, 
came  round  to  me  with  his  open  guuy  in  his 
hand,  whispering,  "  WuU  00  ripp  'er  up  noo  ?  " 
It  happened  not  to  be  a  case  for  ripping  up. 
The  gully  was  a  great  sanitary  institution,  and 
Esade  a  decided  inroad  upon  the yer^ing systtm^ 


156  5eem5  tbe  Boor^'Reepcr* 

'•^/eems  having,  thanks  to  this  and  Dr.  Combe^ 
every  year  fewer  opportunities  of  displaying  and 
enjoying  its  powers. 

He  was  sober  in  other  things  besides  drink, 
could  be  generous  on  occasion,  but  was  careful 
of  his  siller ;  sensitive  to  fierceness  ("  we're 
uncommon  zeelyous  the  day,"  was  a  favorite 
phrase  when  any  church  matter  was  stirring) 
for  the  honor  of  his  church  and  minister,  and 
to  his  too  often  worthless  neighbors  a  perpetual 
moral  protest  and  lesson, — a  living  epistle. 
He  dwelt  at  the  head  of  Big  Lochend's  Close 
in  the  Canongate,  at  the  top  of  a  long  stair, — 
tiinety-six  steps,  as  I  well  know, — where  he  had 
dwelt,  all  by  himself,  for  five-and-thirty  years, 
and  where  in  the  midst  of  all  sorts  of  flittings 
and  changes,not  a  day  opened  or  closed  without 
the  weli-known  sound  oi/eejns  at  his  prayers,— 
his  "  exercise," — at  "  the  Books."  His  clear, 
fearless,  honest  voice  in  psalm  and  chapter,  and 
strong  prayer  come  sounding  through  that  wide 
*^  land^^^  \ik.Q  that  of  one  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Jeems  and  I  got  great  friends  ;  he  called  me 
John,  as  if  he  was  my  grandfather  ;  and  though 
as  plain  in  speech  as  in  feature,  he  was  never 
rude.    I  owe  him  much  in  many  ways.    HIa 


Seems  tbe  5)oor=1fteeper.  87 

absolute  downrightness  and^^^^z//^;^^^;  his 
energetic,  unflinching  fulfillment  of  his  work  ; 
his  rugged,  sudden  tenderness ;  his  look  of 
sturdy  age,  as  the  thick  silver-white  hair  lay  on 
his  serious  and  weatherworn  face,  like  moon- 
light on  a  stout  old  tower ;  his  quaint  Old  Testa- 
ment exegetics  ;  his  lonely  and  contented  life ; 
his  simple  godliness, — it  was  no  small  privi« 
lege  to  see  much  of  all  this. 

But  I  must  stop.  I  forget  that  you  did  n't 
know  him  ;  that  he  is  not  your  Jeems.  If  it 
had  been  so,  you  would  not  soon  have  wearied 
of  telling  or  of  being  told  of  the  life  and  con- 
versation of  this  "  fell  body."  He  was  not 
communicative  about  his  early  life.  He  would 
sometimes  speak  to  me  about  "  he?^^^  as  if  I 
knew  who  and  where  she  was  and  always  with 
a  gentleness  and  solemnity  unlike  his  usual 
gruff  ways.  I  found  out  that  he  had  been 
married  when  young,  and  that  "  she "  (he 
never  named  her)  and  their  child  died  on  the 
same  day, — the  day  of  its  birth.  The  only 
indication  of  married  life  in  his  room  was  an 
old  and  strong  cradle,  which  he  had  cut  down 
so  as  to  rock  no  more,  and  which  he  made 
the  depository  of  his  books, — a  queer  coUeo* 
tioQ. 


88  Seems  tbe  S)oor=fccepet. 

I  have  said  that  he  had  what  he  called,  with 
a  grave  smile,  family  worship,  morning  and 
evening,  never  failing.  He  not  only  sang  his 
psalm,  but  gave  out  or  chanted  the  line  in  great 
style  ;  and  on  seeing  me  one  morning  surprised 
at  this,  he  said,  "  Ye  see  John,  oo^^  nreaning 
himself  and  his  wife,  "  began  that  way  *  He 
had  a  firm,  true  voice,  and  a  genuine  though 
roughish  gift  of  singing  and  being  methodical 
in  all  things,  he  did  what  I  never  heard  of  in 
any  one  else, — he  had  seven  fixed  tunes,  one 
of  which  he  sang  on  its  own  set  day.  Sabbath 
morning  it  was  French^  which  he  v/ent  through 
with  great  bij'r.  IMonday,  Scarborough^  which, 
he  said,  was  like  my  father  cantering.  Tuesday, 
Coleshill^  that  soft,  exquisite  air^ — monotonous 
and  melancholy,  soothing  and  vague,  like  the 
sea.  This  day,  Tuesday,  was  the  day  of  the 
week  on  which  his  wife  and  child  died,  and  he 
always  sang  more  verses  then  than  on  any 
other.  Wednesday  was  Irish,  Thursday,  Old 
Hundred  Friday,  Bangor;  and  Saturday, 
Blackburn^  that  humdrummest  of  tunes,  "  as 
long,  and  lank,  and  lean,  as  is  the  ribbed  sea- 
sand."  He  could  not  defend  it,  but  had  some 
secret  reason  for  sticking  to  it.  As  to  the 
evenings,  there  were  just  the  same  tunes  i') 


3ecm6  tbe  2)oor*1keeper.  Sf 

reversed  order,  only  that  on  Tuesday  night  he 
sang  Cokshill  again,  thus  dropping  Blackburn 
for  evening  work.  The  children  could  tell  the 
day  of  the  week  by  Jeems's  tune,  and  would 
have  been  as  much  astonished  at  hearing 
Bangor  on  Monday,  as  at  finding  St.  Giles's 
half-way  down  the  Canongate. 

I  frequently  breakfasted  with  him.  He 
made  capital  porridge,  and  I  wish  I  could  get 
such  buttermilk,  or  at  least  have  such  a  relish 
for  it,  as  in  those  days.  Jeems  is  away, — gone 
over  to  the  majority;  and  I  hope  I  may  never 
forget  to  be  grateful  to  the  dear  and  queer  old 
man.  I  think  I  see  and  hear  him  saying  his 
grace  over  our  bickers  with  their  brats  on, 
then  taking  his  two  books  out  of  the  cradle 
and  reading,  not  without  a  certain  homel]^ 
tnajesty,  the  first  verse  of  the  99th  Psalm, 

"  Th'  eternal  Lord  doth  reign  as  king, 
Let  all  the  people  quake  ; 
He  sits  between  the  cherubims, 
Let  th'  earth  be  moved  and  shake  ;  •• 

then  launching  out  into  the  noble  depths  of 
-frisky  His  chapters  were  long,  and  his  prayers 
short,  very  scriptural,  but  by  no  means  stereo- 
typed and  wonderfully  real,  immediate,  as  if  ha 


90  5eem5  tbe  2)oor=1Reepew. 

was  near  Him  whom  he  addressed.  Any  0D6 
hearing  the  sound  and  not  the  words,  would 
say,  "  That  man  is  speaking  to  some  one  who 
is  with  him, — who  is  present,"- — as  he  often 
said  to  me,  "  There's  nae  gude  dune,  John,  till 
ye  get  to  dose  grups.^^ 

Now,  I  dare  say  you  are  marveling,— ;/frj4 
Why  I  brought  this  grim,  old  Rhadamanthus, 
Bezaleel,  U.  P.  Naso  of  a  door-keeper  up 
before  you ;  and  secondly^  How  I  am  to  get 
him  down  decorously  in  that  ancient  blue 
great-coat,  and  get  at  my  own  proper  text. 

And  first  of  the  first,  I  thought  it  would 
do  you  young  men — the  hope  of  the  world—* 
no  harm  to  let  your  affections  go  out  toward 
this  dear,  old-world  specimen  of  homespun 
worth.  And  as  to  the  seco?id,  I  am  going  to 
make  it  my  excuse  for  what  is  to  come.  One 
day  soon  after  I  knew  him,  when  I  thought  he 
was  in  a  soft,  confidential  mood,  I  said, 
**  JeemSj  what  kind  of  weaver  are  you  ? "  "  Tm 
in  the  fancical  line^  maister  John,"  said  he, 
somewhat,  stiffly;  "I  like  its  kecence,**  So 
exit  Jeems — impiger^  iracundus,  acer — torvus 
Visu — -placide  quiescat  / 

Now,  my  dear  iriends,  I  am  in  the  fancual 
Kne  as  well  as  /eems^  and  in  virtue  of  my 


5eem3  toe  S)oor5'ff?eeper.  ;i 

t€ecencey  I  begin  my  exegetical  remarks  on  the 
pursuit  of  truth.  By  the  by,  I  should  have 
told  Sir  Henry  that  it  is  truth,  not  knowledge^ 
I  was  to  be  after.  Now  all  knowledge  should 
be  true,  but  it  isn't ,  much  of  what  is  called 
knowledge  is  very  little  worth  even  when  true, 
and  much  of  the  best  truth  is  not  in  a  strict 
sense  knowable, — rather  it  is  felt  and  believed. 
Exegetical,  you  know,  is  the  grand  and 
fashionable  word  nowadays  for  explanatory ; 
it  means  bringing  out  of  a  passage  all  that  is 
in  it,  and  nothing  more.  For  my  part,  being 
in  Jeems'^s  line,  I  am  not  so  particular  as  to  the 
nothing  more.  We  fancical  men  are  much 
given  to  make  somethings  of  nothings  ;  indeed, 
the  noble  Italians  call  imagination  and  poetic 
fancy  the  little  more\  its  very  function  is  to 
embellish  and  intensify  the  actual  and  the 
common.  Now  you  must  not  laugh  at  me,  or 
it,  when  I  announce  the  passage  from  which  I 
mean  to  preach  upon  the  pursuit  of  truth,  and 
the  possession  of  wisdom  : — 

••  On  Tintock  tap  there  is  a  Mist, 
And  in  the  Mist  there  is  a  Kist, 
And  in  the  Kist  there  b  a  Cap  ; 
"•ak'  up  the  Cap  and  sup  the  draj^ 
And  set  the  Cap  aa  Tintock  tap.** 


92  5cems  tbe  2)oor*1keeper, 

As  to  what  Sir  Henry  *  would  call  the  COD- 
text,  we  are  saved  all  trouble,  there  being 
none,  the  passage  being  self-contained,  and  as 
destitute  of  relations  as  Melchisedec. 

Tintock^  you  all  know,  or  should  know,  is  a 
big  porphyritic  hill  in  Lanarkshire,  standing 
alone,  and  dominating  like  a  king  over  the 
Upper  Ward.  Then  we  all  understand  what  a 
mist  is ;  and  it  is  worth  remembering  that  as 
it  is  more  difficult  to  penetrate,  to  illuminate, 
and  to  see  through  mist  than  darkness,  so  it 
is  easier  to  enlighten  and  overcome  ignorance^ 
than  error,  confusion,  and  mental  mist.  Then 
a  kist  is  Scotch  for  chest,  and  a  cap  the  same 
for  cup,  and  drap  for  drop.  Well,  then,  I 
draw  out  of  these  queer  old  lines, — 

First,  That  to  gain  real  knowledge,  to  get  it 
at  first  hand,  you  must  go  up  the  Hill  Diffi- 
culty,— some  Tintock,  som.ething  you  see  from 
afar,— and  you  must  climb  ;  you  must  energize, 
as  Sir  William  Hamilton  and  Dr.  Chalmers 
said  and  did  ;  you  must  turn  your  back  upon 
the  plain,  and  you  must  mainly  go  alone,  and 
on  your  own  legs.  Two  boys  may  start  to-  ^ 
gether  on  going  up  Tinto,  and  meet  at  the  top  ; 

*  This  was  read  to  Sir  Henry  W.  Moncreiff's  Young 
Men's  Association,  November,  1862. 


Seems  tqe  &>oox^l<ccvcc»  (jj 

^5ut  the  journeys  are  separate,  each  takes  his 
own  Hne. 

Secondly^  You  start  for  your  Tintock  top 
with  a  given  object,  to  get  into  the  mist  and 
get  the  drop,  and  you  do  this  chiefly  because 
you  have  the  truth-hunting  instinct ;  you  long 
to  know  what  is  hidden  there,  for  there  is  a 
wild  and  urgent  charm  in  the  unknown  ;  and 
you  want  to  realize  for  yourself  what  others,  it 
may  have  been  ages  ago,  tell  they  have  found 
there. 

Thirdly^  There  is  no  road  up  ;  no  omnibus 
to  the  top  -of  Tinto  ;  you  must  zigzag  it  in 
your  own  ivay,  and  as  I  have  already  said, 
most  part  of  it  alone. 

j.'burt/i!y,  This  climbing,  this  exaltation, 
an<i  buckling  to  of  the  mind,  of  itself  does  you 
good  ;  *  it  is  capital  exercise,  and  you  find 
out  mr.liy  a  thing  by  the  way.  Your  lungs 
play  freely ;  your  mouth  fills  with  the  sweet 
waters  "if  keen  action ;  the  hill  tries  your  wind 
and  mettle,  supples  and  hardens  your  joints 
and  Jimbs ;  quickens  and  rejoices,  while  it 
tests  yo'ir  heart, 

♦  **  In  this  jBurauit,  whether  we  take  or  whether  ww 
losfi  oui  ^lame,  ihe  chase  is  certainly  of  service.**'^ 

BuiLKE, 


94  Seems  tbe  35)oor*1ftceper. 

Fifthlyy  You  have  many  a  fall,  many  a  falsa 
step ;  you  slip  back,  you  tumble  into  a  moss* 
hagg ;  you  stumble  over  the  baffling  stones; 
you  break  your  shins  and  lose  your  temper, 
and  the  finding  of  it  makes  you  keep  it  better 
the  next  time ;  you  get  more  patient,  and  yet 
more  eager,  and  not  unoften  you  come  to  a 
standstill ;  run  yourself  up  against,  or  to  the 
edge  of  some  impossible  precipice,  some  in- 
soluble problem,  and  have  to  turn  for  your 
life ;  and  you  may  find  yourself  over  head  in 
a  treacherous  wellee,  whose  soft  inviting  cushion 
of  green  has  decoyed  many  a  one  before 
you. 

Sixthly,  You  are  forever  mistaking  the  top; 
thinking  you  are  at  it,  when,  behold  !  there  it 
is,  as  if  farther  off  than  ever,  and  you  may 
have  to  humble  yourself  in  a  hidden  valley 
before  reascending  ;  and  so  on  you  go,  at  times 
flinging  yourself  down  on  the  elastic  heather, 
stretched  panting  with  your  face  to  the  sky, 
or  gazing  far  away  athwart  the  widening  hori- 
zon. 

Seventhly^  As  you  get  up,  you  may  see  how 
the  world  below  lessens  and  reveals  itself 
comes  up  to  you  as  a  whole,  with  its  just  pro- 
portions and  relations  ;  how  small  the  village 


5eem5  the  Boorsfteepen  95 

you  live  in  looks,  and  the  house  in  which  yotj 
were  born ;  how  the  plan  of  the  place  comes 
out:  there  is  the  quiet  churchyard,  and  a 
lamb  is  nibbUng  at  that  infant's  grave  ;  there, 
close  to  the  little  churcli,  your  mother  rests 
till  the  great  day ;  and  there  far  off  you  may 
trace  the  river  winding  through  the  piain, 
coming  like  human  life,  from  darkness  to  dark- 
ness,— from  its  source  in  some  wild,  upland 
solitude  to  its  eternity,  the  sea.  But  you  have 
rested  long  enough,  so,  up  and  away !  take 
the  hill  once  again  !  Every  effort  is  a  victory 
and  joy, — new  skill  and  power  and  relish,-— 
takes  you  farther  from  the  world  below,  nearer 
the  clouds  and  heavens  ;  and  you  may  note 
that  the  more  you  move  up  towards  the  pure 
blue  depths  of  the  sky, — the  more  lucid  and 
the  more  unsearchable, — the  farther  off,  the 
more  withdrawn  into  their  own  clear  infinity 
do  they  seem.  Well,  then,  you  get  to  the 
upper  story,  and  you  find  it  less  difficult,  less 
steep  than  lower  down;  often  so  plain  and 
level,  that  you  can  run  off  in  an  ecstasy  to 
tihe  crowning  cairn,  to  the  sacred  mist, — within 
whose  cloudy  shrine  rests  the  unknown  secret ; 
some  great  truth  of  God  and  of  your  own  soul ; 
something  that  is  not  to  be  gotten  for  gol4 


96  Seeme  tbc  Door**ff:eepeu 

down  on  the  plain,  but  may  be  taken  here 
something  that  no  man  can  give  or  take  away ; 
something  that  you  must  work  for  and  learn 
yourself,  and  which,  once  yours,  is  safe  beyond 
the  chances  of  time. 

Eighthly^  You  enter  that  luminous  cloud, 
Stooping  and  as  a  little  child, — as,  indeed,  all 
the  best  kingdoms  are  entered, — and  pressing 
on,  you  come  in  the  shadowy  light  to  the  long- 
dreamt-of  ark, — the  chest.  It  is  shut,  it  is 
locked  ;  but  if  you  are  the  man  I  take  you  to 
be,  you  have  the  key,  put  it  gently  in,  steadily, 
and  home.  But  what  is  the  key  ?  It  is  the 
love  of  truth  ;  neither  more  nor  less  ;  no  other 
key  opens  it ;  no  false  one,  however  cunning, 
can  pick  that  lock ;  no  assault  of  hammer, 
however  stout,  can  force  it  open.  Eut  with 
its  own  key,  a  little  child  may  open  it,  often 
does  open  it,  it  goes  so  sweetly,  so  with  a  will. 
You  lift  the  lid ;  you  are  all  alone  ;  the  cloud 
is  round  you  with  a  sort  of  tender  light  of  its 
own,  shutting  out  the  outer  world,  filling  you 
with  an  eerie  joy,  as  if  alone  and  yet  not  alone. 
You  see  the  cup  within,  and  in  it  the  one 
crystalline,  unimaginable,  inestimable  drop; 
glowing  and  tremulous,  as  if  alive.  You  take 
op  the  cup,  ^ou  sup  tlie  drop  \  it  enicrs  into« 


5cemB  tbe  2)oor*1Reeper.  97 

and  becomes  of  the  essence  of  yourself ;  and 
so  in  humble  gratitude  and  love,  "  in  sober 
certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  you  gently  replace 
the  cup.  It  will  gather  again,— it  is  forever 
ever  gathering ;  no  man,  woman  or  child  ever 
opened  that  chest,  and  found  no  drop  in  the 
cup.  It  might  not  be  the  very  drop  expected  ; 
it  will  serve  their  purpose  none  the  worse, 
often  much  the  better. 

And  now,  bending  down,  you  shut  the  lid, 
which  you  hear  locking  itself  afresh  against  all 
but  the  sacred  key.  You  leave  the  now  hal- 
lowed mist.  You  look  out  on  the  old  familiar 
world  again,  which  somehow  looks  both  new 
and  old.  You  descend,  making  your  obser- 
vations over  again,  throwing  the  light  of  the 
present  on  the  past ;  and  past  and  present  set 
against  the  boundless  future.  You  hear  coming 
up  to  you  the  homely  sounds — the  sheep-dog's 
bark,  "  the  cock's  shrill  clarion  " — from  the 
farm  at  the  hill-foot ;  you  hear  the  ring  of  the 
blacksmith's  study^  you  see  the  smoke  of  his 
forge ;  your  mother's  grave  has  the  long 
shadows  of  evening  lying  across  it,  the  sun- 
light falling  on  the  letters  of  her  name,  and  on 
the  number  of  her  years  ;  the  lamb  is  asleep 
In  the  bield  of  the  infant's  grave.  Speedily 
I 


9?  5eem6  tbe  Dooc^iRecpet^ 

you  are  at  your  own  door.  You  enter  with 
wearied  feet,  and  thankful  heart;  you  shut 
the  door,  and  you  kneel  down  and  pray  to 
your  Father  in  heaven,  the  Father  of  lights, 
your  reconciled  Father,  the  God  and  Father 
of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  and 
our  God  and  Father  in  and  through  him.  And 
•is  you  lie  down  on  your  own  delightful  bed 
before  you  fall  asleep,  you  think  over  again 
^our  ascent  of  the  Hill  Difficulty, — its  baffling 
heights,  its  reaches  of  dreary  moorland,  its 
shifting  gravel,  its  precipices,  its  quagmires, 
its  little  wells  of  living  waters  near  the  top, 
■^nd  all  its  *'  dread  magnificence ; "  its  calm, 
restful  summit,  the  hush  of  silence  there,  ^e 
eill-aloneness  of  the  place  and  hour;  its  peace, 
lis  sacredness,  its  divineness.  You  see  again 
the  mist,  the  ark,  the  cup,  the  gleaming  drop, 
and  recalling  the  sight  of  the  world  below,  the 
earth  and  all  its  fullness,  you  say  to  yourself, — > 

•*  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 

Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame, 

Thus  wondrous  fair;  Thyself  how  wondrous  then! 

Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens." 

And  finding  the  burden  too  heavy  even  for 
these  glorious  lines,  you  take  refuge  ia  tbe 
Psalms,— 


5eem6  tbe  2)oor*1kecper.  99 

■  Praise  ye  the  Lord. 
Praise  ye  the  Lord  from  the  heavens  :  praise  him  ia 

the  heights. 
Praise  him  in  the  firmament  of  his  power. 
Praise  ye  him,  all  his  angels :  praise  ye  him,  all  his 

hosts. 
Praise  ye  him,  sun  and  moon :  praise  him,  all  ye  stars 

of  light. 
Praise  the  Lord  from  the  earth,  ye  dragons,  and   all 

deeps ; 
Fire  and  hail ;  snow  and  rapor ;  stormy  wind  fulfilling 

his  words : 
Mountains,  and  all  hills ;  fruitful  trees,  and  all  cedars  ; 
Beasts,  and  all  cattle  ;  creeping  things,  and  flying  fowl : 
Kings  of  the   earth,  and  all  people  ;  princes  and  all 

judges  of  the  earth  ; 
Both  young  men  and  maidens  ;  oLd  men  and  children : 
Let  them  praise  the  name  of  the  Lord : 
For  his  name  alone  is  excellent ;  his  glory  is  above  thd 

earth  and  heaven. 
Let  everything  that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord. 
Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul !  " 

I  need  hardly  draw  the  moral  of  this  our 
somewhat  fancical  exercitation  and  exegesis. 
You  can  all  make  it  out,  such  as  it  is.  It  is 
the  toil,  and  the  joy,  and  the  victory  in  the 
search  of  truth  ;  not  the  taking  on  trust,  or 
learning  by  rote,  not  by  heart,  what  other  men 
count  or  call  true  ;  but  the  vital  appropriation, 
the  assimilati()i^  ci  truth  a^  Q^rs^lves.  and  ol 


»oo  5eem3  the  Boor=1keeper. 

ourselves  to  truth.  All  truth  is  of  value,  but 
one  truth  dulfers  from  another  in  weight  and 
in  brightness,  in  worth ;  and  you  need  not  me 
to  tell  you  that  spiritual  and  eternal  truth,  the 
truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus,  is  the  best.  And  don't 
think  that  your  own  hand  has  gotten  you  the 
victory,  and  that  you  had  no  unseen,  and  it 
may  be  unfelt  and  unacknowledged,  hand  guid- 
ing you  up  the  hill.  Unless  the  Lord  had 
been  at  and  on  your  side,  all  your  labor  would 
^ave  been  in  vain,  and  worse.  No  two  things 
are  more  inscrutable  or  less  uncertain  than 
man's  spontaneity  and  man's  helplessness, — 
Freedom  and  Grace  as  the  two  poles.  It  is 
His  doing  that  you  are  led  to  the  right  hill  and 
the  right  road,  for  there  are  other  Tintocks, 
with  other  kists,  and  other  drops.  Work  out, 
therefore,  your  own  knowledge  with  fear  and 
trembling,  for  it  is  God  that  worketh  in  you  both 
to  will  and  to  do  and  to  know  of  his  good 
pleasure.  There  is  no  explaining  and  there 
is  no  disbelieving  this. 

And  now,  before  bidding  you  good-bye,  did 
you  ever  think  of  the  spiritual  meaning  of  the 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  and  the  pillar  of  fire  by 
night,  as  connected  with  our  knowledge  and 
our  ignorance,  our  light  a«^   «iarkness,  out 


^eems  tbc  2)oor*1Recper,  loi 

gladness  and  our  sorrow  ?  The  every-day  use 
of  this  divine  alternation  to  the  wandering 
children  of  Israel  is  plain  enough.  Darkness 
is  best  seen  against  light,  and  light  against 
darkness ;  and  its  use,  in  a  deeper  sense  of 
keeping  forever  before  them  the  immediate 
presence  of  God  in  the  midst  of  them,  is  not 
less  plain  ;  but  I  sometimes  think,  that  we 
who  also  are  still  in  the  wilderness,  and  o?m- 
ing  up  from  our  Egypt  and  its  flesh-pots,  ;ind 
on  our  way  let  us  hope,  through  God's  grixe, 
to  the  celestial  Canaan,  may  draw  from  these 
old-world  signs  and  wonders  that,  in  the  mid- 
day of  knowledge,  with  daylight  all  about  us, 
there  is,  if  one  could  but  look  for  it,  that  per- 
petual pillar  of  cloud, — that  sacred  darkness 
which  haunts  all  human  knowledge,  often  the 
most  at  its  highest  noon ;  that  "  look  that 
threatens  the  profane  "  ;  that  something,  and 
above  all  that  sense  of  Some  One,  that  Holy 
One,  who  inhabits  eternity  and  its  praises, 
who  makes  darkness  His  secret  place,  His 
pavilion  round  about,  darkness  and  thick 
clouds  of  the  sky. 

And  again,  that  in  the  deepest,  thickest 
night  of  doubt,  of  fear,  of  sorrow,  of  despair; 
that  then,  and  all  the  most  then, — if  we  will 


I02  jccme  the  S)oot=*ffteei?et. 

but  look  in  the  right  at'rf,  and  with  the  seeing 
eye  and  the  understanding  heart, — there  may 
be  seen  that  Pillar  of  fire,  of  light  and  of  heat, 
to  guide  and  quicken  and  cheer ;  knowledge 
and  love,  that  everlasting  love  which  we  know 
to  be  the  Lord's.  And  how  much  better  off 
are  we  than  the  chosen  people  ;  their  pillars 
were  on  earth,  divine  in  their  essence,  but 
subject  doubtless  to  earthly  perturbations  and 
interferences  ;  but  our  guiding  light  is  in  the 
heavens,  towards  which  may  we  take  earnest 
bfied  that  we  are  journeying. 

•*  Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark; 
The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  ray  foundering  baik. 

"Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  T  ceased  the  tide  to  stem 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose, — 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  I 

*  It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 
It  bade  my  dark  foreboding  cease  ; 
And  through  the  storm  and  danger's  thraB 
It  led  me  to  the  port  in  peace. 

•Now  safely  moored,  my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing  first  in  night's  diadem. 
Forever  and  forevermore 
The  Star,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  I " 


MORE  OF  "OUR  D(XiS.' 


MORE  OF  "OUR  DOGS* 

Petfr. 

Peter  died  young, — very  quick  and  soon 
that  bright  thing  came  to  confusion.  He  died 
of  excess  of  life ;  his  vivacity  slew  him.  Plucky 
and  silent  under  punishment,  or  any  pain  from 
without,  pain  from  within,  in  his  own  precious 
brisk,  enjoying  body,  was  an  insufferable  of- 
fense, affront  and  mystery, — an  astonishment 
not  to  be  borne, — he  disdained  to  live  under 
such  conditions. 

One  day  he  came  in  howling  with  pain. 
There  was  no  injury,  no  visible  cause,  but  he 
was  wildly  ill,  and  in  his  eyes  the  end  of  all 
things  had  come.  He  put  so  many  questions 
to  us  at  each  pang — what  is  this  ? — what  the 
can  it  be  ? — did  you  ever  ?  As  each  par- 
oxysm doubled  him  up,  he  gave  a  sharp  cry, 
more  of  rage  and  utter  exasperation  than  of 
suffering ;  he  got  up  to  run  away  from  it — why 
should  he  die  ?    Why  should  he  be  shut  up  m 


io6  Aorc  ot  **  0\xt  WOQB**' 

darkness  and  obstruction  at  that  hour  of  his 
opening  morn, — his  sweet  hour  of  prime  ?  And 
so  raging,  and  utterly  put  out,  the  honest,  dear 
little  fellow  went  off  in  an  ecstasy  of  fury  at 
death,  at  its  absurdity  in  his  case. 

We  never  could  explain  his  death ;  it  was 
not  poison  or  injury  ;  he  actually  expired  when 
careering  round  the  green  at  full  speed,  as  if 
to  outrun  his  enemy,  or  shake  him  off.  We 
have  not  yet  got  over  his  loss,  and  all  the 
possibilities  that  lie  buried  in  his  grave,  in  the 
Park,  beneath  a  young  chestnut-tree  where  the 
ruddy-cheeked,  fat,  and  cordial  coachman,  who 
of  old,  in  the  grand  old  Reform  days,  used  to 
drive  his  mastor,  Mr.  Speaker  Abercromby, 
down  to  "  the  House  "  with  much  stateliness 
and  bouquet,  and  I  dug  it  for  him, — that  park 
in  which  Peter  had  often  disported  himself, 
fluttering  the  cocks  and  hens,  and  putting  to 
flight  the  squadron  of  Gleneagle's  wedders. 

Dick. 

He  too  is  dead, — he  who,  never  having  been 
born,  we  had  hoped  never  would  die  ;  not  thaf 
he  did — like  Rab — "  exactly  "  die  ;  he  was 
slain.     He  was  fourteen,  and  getting  deaf  and 


libotc  of  *'  ®ur  WoQe»'*  107 

blind,  and  a  big  bully  of  a  retriever  fell  on  him 
one  Sunday  morning  when  the  bells  were  ring- 
ing. Dick,  who  always  fought  at  any  odds, 
gave  battle ;  a  Sabbatarian  cab  turned  the 
corner,  the  big  dog  fled,  and  Dick  was  run  over, 
' — there  in  his  own  street,  as  all  his  many 
friends  were  going  to  church.  His  back  was 
broken,  and  he  died  on  Monday  night  with  us  all 
about  him  ;  dear  for  his  own  sake,  dearer  for 
another's,  whose  name — Sine  Qua  Non — is  now 
more  than  ever  true,  now  that  she  is  gone. 

I  was  greatly  pleased  when  Dr.  Cotting  of 
Roxbury  came  in  yesterday  and  introduced 
himself  to  me  by  asking,  "  Where  is  Dick  ?  " 
To  think  of  our  Dick  being  known  in  Mas* 
sachusetts  I 

Bob. 

If  Peter  was  the  incarnation  of  vivacity,  Bo* 
was  that  of  energy.  He  should  have  been 
called  Thalaba  the  Destroyer.  He  rejoiced  in 
demolition, — not  from  ill  temper,  but  from  the 
sheer  delight  of  energizing. 

When  I  first  knew  him  he  was  atBHnkbonn^ 
toll  The  tollman  and  his  wife  were  old  and 
the  house  lonely,  and  Bob  was  too  terrific  for 
any  burglar.   He  was  as  tall  and  heavy  as  a  fo* 


2o8  ^ore  ot  *'0\xv  2)096/' 

hound,  but  in  every  other  respect  a  pure  old 
fashioned,  wiry,  short-haired  Scotch  terrier,— 
red  as  Rob  Roy's  beard, — having  indeed  other 
qualities  of  Rob's  than  his  hair, — choleric,  un- 
scrupulous, affectionate,  stanch, — not  in  the 
least  magnanimous, — as  ready  to  worry  a  little 
dog  as  a  big  one.  Fighting  was  his  "  chief 
end,"  and  he  omitted  no  opportunity  of  ac- 
complishing his  end.  Rab  liked  fighting  for 
its  own  sake,  too,  but  scorned  to  fight  any 
thing  under  his  own  weight ;  indeed,  was  long- 
suffering  to  public  meanness  with  quarrel- 
some lesser  dogs,  l^v/o  had  no  such  weak- 
ness. 

After  m.uch  dimculty  and  change  of  masters, 
I  bought  him,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  for  five 
pounds,  and  brought  him  home.  He  had 
been  chained  for  months,  was  in  high  health 
and  spirits,  and  the  surplus  power  and  activity 
of  this  great  creature,  as  he  dragged  me  and 
my  son  along  the  road,  giving  battle  to  every 
dog  he  met,  was  something  appalling. 

I  very  soon  found  I  could  not  keep  him. 
He  worried  the  pet  dogs  all  around,  and  got  me 
into  much  trouble.  So  I  gave  him  as  night- 
watchman  to  a  goldsmith  in  Princes  Street. 
This  work  he  did  famously.     I  once,  in  passing 


ubovc  ct  *'  ©ur  Dogs/'  109 

at  midnight,  stopped  at  the  shop  and  peered 
in  at  the  little  slip  of  glass,  and  by  the  gas- 
light I  saw  where  he  lay.  I  made  a  noise,  and 
out  came  he  with  a  roar  and  a  bang  as  of  a 
s?edge-hammer.  I  then  called  his  name,  and 
in  an  instant  all  v/as  still  except  a  quick  tap- 
ping within  that  Intimated  the  wagging  of  the 
tail.  He  is  still  there, — has  settled  down  into 
a  reputable,  pacific  citizen, — a  good  deal  owing, 
perhaps,  to  the  disappearance  in  battle  of  sun- 
dry of  his  best  teeth.  As  he  lies  in  the  sun 
before  the  shop  door  he  looks  somehow  like 
the  old  Fighting  Temeraire. 

I  never  saw  a  dog  of  the  same  breed  ;  he  is 
a  sort  of  rough  cob  of  a  dog, — a  huge  quantity 
of  terrier  in  one  skin  ;  for  he  has  all  the  fun 
and  briskness  and  failings  and  ways  of  a  small 
dog,  begging  and  hopping  as  only  it  does. 
Once  his  master  took  him  to  North  Berwick. 
His  first  day  he  spent  in  careering  about  the 
3ands  and  rocks  and  in  the  sea,  for  he  is  a 
noble  swimmer.  His  next  he  devoted  to  wor- 
rying all  the  dogs  of  the  town,  beginning,  fof 
convenience,  with  the  biggest. 

This  aroused  the  citizens,  and  their  fury  was 
brought  to  a  focus  on  the  third  day  by  its 
beija^  reported  alternatively  that  he  had  torn  a 


no  ^ore  of  **©ur  Dogs/' 

child's  ear  off,  or  torn  and  actually  eaten  it 
Up  rose  the  town  as  one  man,  and  the  women 
each  as  two,  and,  headed  by  Matthew  Cathie, 
the  one-eyed  and  excellent  shoemaker,  with  a 
tall,  raw  divinity  student,  knock-kneed  and  six 
feet  two,  who  was  his  lodger,  and  was  of  course 
called  young  Dominie  Sampson.  They  bora 
down  upon  Bob  and  his  master,  who  were 
walking  calmly  on  the  shore. 

Bob  was  for  making  a  stand,  after  the  maiv 
ner  of  Coriolanus,  and  banishing  by  instant 
assault  the  "  common  cry  of  curs,"  but  his 
master  saw  sundry  guns  and  pistols,  not  to 
speak  of  an  old  harpoon,  and  took  to  his  heels, 
as  the  only  way  of  getting  Bob  to  take  to  his. 
Aurifex,  with  much  nous,  made  for  the  police 
station,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  con- 
stables and  half  a  crown,  got  Thalaba  locked 
up  for  the  night,  safe  and  sulky. 

Next  morning,  Sunday,  when  Cathie  and 
his  huge  student  lay  uneasily  asleep,  dreaming 
of  vengeance,  and  the  early  dawn  was  beauti- 
ful upon  the  Bass,  with  its  snowy  cloud  of  sea- 
birds  "  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave,"  Bob 
was  hurried  up  to  the  station,  locked  into  a 
horse-box, — him  never  shall  that  ancient  Burgh 
forget  or  sec 


aSOXC  Ot  **  ©Ut  2)056/*  III 

I  have  a  notion  that  dogs  have  humor,  and 
are  perceptive  of  a  joke.  In  the  North,  a 
shepherd,  having  sold  his  sheep  at  a  market, 
was  asked  by  the  buyer  to  lend  him  his  dog  to 
take  them  home.  "  By  a'  manner  o'  means 
tak  Birkie,  and  when  ye'r  dune  wi'  him  just 
play  so,"  (making  a  movement  with  his  arm), 
"  and  he'll  be  hame  in  a  jiffy."  Birkie  was  so 
clever  and  useful  and  gay  that  the  borrower 
coveted  him  ;  and  on  getting  to  his  farm  shut 
him  up,  intending  to  keep  him.  Birkie  es- 
caped during  the  night,  and  took  the  entire 
hirsel  (flock)  back  to  his  own  master !  Fancy 
him  trotting  across  the  moor  with  them,  they 
as  willing  as  he. 


m£h  FOR  A  DOG  HOME 


PLEA  FOR  A  DOG  HOME. 

Edinburgh,  December  8,  1862. 
Sir, — I  am  rejoiced  to  find  Mr.  William 
Chambers  has  taken  up  this  matter.  There  is 
no  fear  of  failure  if  Glenormiston  sets  himself 
to  organize  a  home  for  our  destitute  four-footed 
fellow-creatures,  from  whom  we  get  so  much 
of  the  best  enjoyment,  affection,  and  help.  It 
need  not  be  an  expensive  institution, — if  the 
value  of  the  overplus  of  good  eating  that,  from 
our  silly  over-indulgence,  makes  our  town  dogs 
short-Jived,  lazy,  mang^-,  and  on  a  rare  and  en- 
livening occasion  mad,  were  represented  by 
money,  all  the  homeless,  starving  dogs  of  the 
city  would  be  warmed  and  fed,  and  their  dumb 
miseries  turned  into  food  and  gladness.  When 
we  see  our  Peppers,  and  Dicks^  and  Muffs,  and 
Nellys,  and  Dandies,  and  who  knows  how  many 
other  cordial  little  ruffians  with  the  shortest  and 
spiciest  of  names,  on  the  rug,  warm  and  cosy, 
— pursuing  in  their  dreams  that  imaginary  cat, 
— let  us  think  of  their  wretched  brethren  or 
sisters  without  food,  without  shelter,  without  • 

"5 


iifi  ©lea  for  a  Bog  Iboi^e* 

master  or  a  bone.  It  only  needs  a  beginningv 
this  new  ragged  school  and  home,  where  the 
religious  element  happily  is  absent,  and  Dr. 
Guthrie  may  go  halves  with  me  in  paying  for 
the  keep  of  a  rescued  cur.  There  is  no  towa 
where  there  are  so  many  thoroughbred  house- 
dogs. I  could  produce  from  my  own  dog  ac- 
quaintance no  end  of  first-class  Dandy  Din- 
monts  and  Skyes  ;  and  there  is  no  towTi  where 
there  is  more  family  enjoyment  from  dogs, — 
from  Paterfamilias  down  to  the  baby  whose 
fingers  are  poked  with  impunity  into  eyes  as 
fierce  and  fell  as  Dick  Hatteraick's  or  Meg 
Merrilies's. 

Many  years  ago,  I  got  a  proof  of  the  unseen, 
and,  therefore,  unhelped  miseries  of  the  home- 
less dog.  I  was  walking  down  Duke  Street, 
when  I  felt  myself  gently  nipped  in  the  leg, — 
I  turned,  and  there  was  a  ragged  little  terrier 
crouching  and  abasing  himself  utterly;  as  if 
asking  pardon  for  what  he  had  done.  He  then 
stood  up  on  end  and  begged  as  only  these  coax- 
ing little  ruffians  can.  Being  in  a  hurry,  I  curtly 
praised  his  performance  with  "  Good  dog  ! " 
clapped  his  dirty  sides,  and,  turning  round, 
made  down  the  hill ;  when  presently  the  same 
nip,  perhaps  a  little  nipper, — the  same  scene. 


IMea  tor  a  E'co  TDomc.  117 

only  more  intense,  the  same  begging  and  urgent 
motioning  of  his  short,  shaggy  paws.  "  There's 
meaning  in  this,"  said  I  to  myself,  and  looked 
at  him  keenly  and  differently.  He  seemed  to 
twig  at  once,  and,  with  a  shrill  cry,  was  off 
much  faster  than  I  could.  He  stopped  every 
now  and  then  to  see  that  I  followed,  and,  by 
way  of  putting  off  the  time  and  urging  me,  got 
up  on  the  aforesaid  portion  of  his  body,  and, 
and,  when  I  came  up,  was  off  again.  This  con- 
tinued till,  after  going  through  sundry  streets 
and  by-lanes,  we  came  to  a  gate,  under  which 
my  short-legged  friend  disappeared.  Of  course 
I  couldn't  follow  him.  This  astonished  him 
greatly.     He  came  out  to  me,  and  as  much  as 

said,  "  Why  the don't  you  come  in  ?  "     I 

tried  to  open  it,  but  in  vain.  My  friend  van- 
ished and  was  silent.  I  was  leaving  in  despair 
and  disgust,  when  I  heard  his  muffled,  ecstatic 
yelp  far  off  round  the  end  of  the  wall,  and  there 
he  was,  wild  with  excitement.  I  followed  and 
came  to  a  place  where,  with  a  somewhat  bur- 
glarious ingenuity,  I  got  myself  squeezed  into  a 
deserted  coachyard,  lying  all  rude  and  waste. 
My  peremptor}^  small  friend  went  under  a  shed> 
and  disappeared  in  a  twinkling  through  the  win* 
dow  of  an  old  coach-body,  which  had  long  ago 


ii8  IP  lea  tcr  a  E'cc  1:3  cr.ie. 

parted  from  its  wheels  and  become  sedentary. 
I  remember  the  arms  of  the  Fife  family  werfj 
on  its  panCi ;  and,  I  dare  say,  this  chariot,  with 
its  C  springs,  had  figured  in  1822  at  the  King's 
visit,  when  all  Scotland  was  somewhat  FifeisK. 
I  looked  in,  and  there  w^as  a  pointer  bitch  with 
a  litter  of  five  pups  ;  the  mother,  like  a  ghost, 
wild  with  maternity  and  hunger ;  her  raging, 
yelling  brood  tearing  away  at  her  dry  dugs.  I 
never  saw  a  more  affecting  or  more  miserable 
scene  than  that  family  inside  the  coach.  The 
poor  bewildered  mother,  I  found,  had  been  lost 
by  some  sportsman  returning  South,  and  must 
have  slunk  away  there  into  that  deserted  place, 
when  her  pangs  (for  she  has  her  pangs  as  well 
as  a  duchess)  came,  and  there,  in  that  forlorn 
retreat,  had  she  been  with  them,  rushing  out  to 
grab  any  chance  garbage,  running  back  fiercely 
to  them, — this  going  on  day  after  day,  night 
after  night.  What  the  relief  was  when  we  got 
her  well  fed  and  cared  for, — and  her  children 
filled  and  silent,  all  cuddling  about  her  asleep, 
and  she  asleep  too, — awaking  up  to  assure  her- 
self that  this  was  all  true,  and  that  there  they 
were,  all  the  five,  each  as  plump  as  a  plum,— 

•*  An  too  happy  in  the  treasure, 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure,**— 


plea  tot  a  2)od  1bome«  119 

whai,  tnis  is  in  kind,  and  all  the  greater  in 
amount  as  many  outnumber  one,  may  be  tlie 
relief,  the  happiness,  the  charity  experienced 
and  exercised  in  a  homely,  well  regulated  Dog 
Home,  Nipper — for  he  was  a  waif — I  took 
home  that  night,  and  gave  him  his  name.  He 
lived  a  merry  life  with  me,  showed  much  pluck 
and  zeal  in  the  killing  of  rats,  and  incontinently 
slew  a  cat  which  had — unnatural  brute,  unlike 
his  friend — deserted  her  kittens,  and  was  howl- 
ing offensively  inside  his  kennel.  He  died, 
aged  sixteen,  healthy,  lean,  and  happy  to  the 
last.  As  ioxPerdita  and  her  pups,  they  brought 
large  prices,  the  late  Andrew  Buchanan,  of  Colt- 
bridge,  an  excellent  authority  and  man — the 
honestest  dog-dealer  I  ever  knew — having  dis- 
covered that  their  blood  and  her  culture  were 
of  the  best 


IN    CLEAR    DREAM    AND 
SOLEMN    YiSiOiV 


"IN  CLEAR  DREAM  AND 
SOLEMN  VISION." 

I  HAD  a  friend, — and,  though  he  is  now  else- 
where,  why  should  n't  I  say  I  have  him  still  ? 
He  was  a  man  of  great  powers  and  of  greater 
gifts.  He  might  have  made  himself  almost 
anything  a  man  may  be ;  but  he  died  unful- 
filled, "  deprived  of  the  residue  of  his  years  " ; 
and  this  owing  much,  among  other  things,  to 
an  imperfect  and  damaged  organism  and  an 
intermittent  will.  He  was  an  advocate  and 
judge,  and  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  great 
lawyer, — good  sense,  vast  and  exact  memory, 
a  logical,  vigorous  understanding,  and  readi- 
ness, fullness,  and  felicity  of  speech.  He  had 
in  him,  as  Jonathan  Edwards  would  have  said, 
more  than  the  average  quantity  of  being ;  and, 
now  that  he  is  gone,  I  feel  what  a  large  space 
he  filled  in  my  mind.  His  w^as  a  large,  mul- 
tilocular  brain,  with  room  for  all  sorts  of  cus- 
tomers. But  it  is  to  his  **  study  of  imagination" 
I  now  refer  in  what  follows* 


124   **1^n  Clear  H)rcam  an&  Solemn  tPistcn." 

He  was  a  mighty  dreamer,  especially  in  the 
iiluculum^  or  "  edge  o*  dark,"  before  full 
awakening;  and  he  used  to  relate  to  his 
cronies  these  Kubla  Khan-like  visions  with 
amazing  particularity.  Many  of  us  would  have 
it  that  he  made  up  his  dreams,  but  I  had  the 
following  proof  of  the  opposite. 

Many  years  ago,  when  v/e  were  at  college, 
I  had  gone  up  to  his  lodgings  to  breakfast 
with  him.  I  found  him  sound  asleep,  his  eyes 
open  and  fixed  as  in  a  mesmeric  trance ;  he  was 
plainly  rapt  in  some  internal  vision.  I  stood 
by  him  for  some  seconds,  during  which  his 
color  and  his  breathing  came  and  went  as  if 
under  some  deep  feeling,  first  of  interest  and 
wonder,  finally  of  horror,  from  which  he  awoke 
into  full  consciousness,  scared  and  excited, 
asking  me  instantly  to  write.  He  then,  in  aa 
anxious,  eager  voice,  began  thus ; — 

*T  is  noon,  but  desolate  and  dun 

The landscape  lies, 

For  'tmxt  it  and  the  mounting  sua 

A  cloud  came  crawling  up  the  skiet) 

From  the  sea  it  rose  all  slowly, 

Thin  and  gray  and  melancholy, 

And  gathered  darkness  as  it  went  y 

Up  into  the firmament." 


•'fn  C^ear  ©ream  anb  Solemn  Diston/*  125 

Here  he  stopped,  and,  with  a  shrug  of  regret, 
said,  "  It's  gone ! "  The  blanks  were  two 
words  I  could  not  make  out,  and  which  he 
never  could  recall.  It  would  be  curious  if 
those  who  may  read  these  lines  were  to  try 
what  adjectives  of  two  syllables  they  liked 
best,  and  send  them  on  to  Mr.  Macmillan : 
it  would  form  an  odd  poetico-statistical  in- 
quiry. 

He  then  gave  the  following  fragments  of 
his  vision,  which  he  said  was  complete,  and  in 
verse  :  — 

He  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  vast 
marshy  plain,  in  utter  solitude,  nothing  around 
him  but  the  dull,  stagnant  waters,  overrun 
with  dry  reeds,  through  which  by  fits  there 
stirred  a  miserable  sough,  leaving  the  plain  op- 
pressed with  silence,  and  the  dead,  heavy  air. 
On  the  small  bit  of  ground  where  he  stood  was 
a  hut,  such  as  the  hunters  of  water-fowl  might 
frequent  in  the  season ;  it  was  in  ruins,  every- 
thing rude  and  waste,  and  through  its  half- 
shut,  broken  door  he  was  aware  of  the  presence 
and  of  the  occasional  movements  of  a  man,  at 
times  as  if  fiercely  struggling  in  the  darkness 
with  some  one  else.  Opposite  the  door  sat 
and  brooded  a  large  white  dove, — its  lustrous 


126  "irn  Clear  Bream  anD  Solemn  IDlsloiu'* 

dark  eyes  fixed  on  the  door, — all  its  feathers 
as  if  "  stirred  with  prayer,"  and  uttering  a  low 
croodling  sound  as  in  an  ecstasy  of  compassion 
and  entreaty,  leaning  gently  towards  its  object. 

Suddenly,  and  without  noise,  an  ugly  bird 
long-legged,  lean,  mangy,  and  foul,  came  pok- 
ing with  measured  steps  round  the  end  of  the 
hut.  It  was  like  the  adjutant  crane  of  Eastern 
cities,  and  had  an  evil  eye,  small  and  <;rueL 
It  walked  jauntily  past  the  dove,  who  took  no 
heed,  and  stood  like  a  fisher  on  the  edge  of 
the  dead  and  oozy  water,  his  head  to  one  side, 
and  his  long  sharp  beak  ready  to  strike.  He 
stood  motionless  for  an  instant ;  then,  with 
a  jerk,  brought  up  a  large,  plump,  wriggling 
worm,  shining,  and  of  the  color  of  jasper. 

He  advanced  to  the  dove,  who  was  yearning 
more  and  more  towards  the  door.  She  became 
agitated,  and  more  earnest  than  ever,  never 
lifting  her  eyes  from  their  object,  and  quiver- 
ing all  over  with  intensity.  The  evil  bird  was 
now  straight  in  front,  and  bent  over  her  with 
the  worm.  She  shut  her  eyes,  shuddered  all 
through  :  he  put  his  dirty  black  foot  on  her 
snowy  back  and  pressed  her  down  so  that  she 
opened  her  mouth  wide,  into  which  the  worm 
was  instantly  dropped.     She  reeled  over  dead, 


**fn  Clear  S)ream  anD  Solemn  Disfon."  127 

towards  the  hut,  as  if  the  last  act  of  life  was 
to  get  nearer  it. 

Up  to  this  moment  the  struggle  inside  the 
hut  had  gone  on,  lulling  and  coming  again  in 
gusts,  like  the  wind  among  the  reeds,  and  the 
arms  of  more  than  one  might  be  seen  across 
the  dark  ragged  doorway,  as  if  in  fell  agony  of 
strife. 

The  instant  the  dove  died,  all  sound  and 
motion  ceased  within,  and  the  whole  region,  as 
my  friend  said,  "  shook  throughout/'  He  was 
aware  that  within  Judas,  "the  son  of  perdi- 
tion,'* lay  alone  and  dead. 

Such  was  this  "  clear  dream,"  and  these  are 
many  of  the  words  my  friend  used.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  me  full  of  poetry  mposse^ 
amorphous  and  uncrystallized,  but  the  germ 
there,  to  which  the  author  of  The  DeviV s  Dream^ 
Mr.  Aird,  might  have  given,  or  if  he  likes  may 
yet  give,  "  the  accomplishment  of  verse." 

That  lonely  and  dismal  place  and  day,  deso- 
late  and  overshadowed  as  in  eclipse  at  noon, 
— the  wretch  within  and  his  demon, — the  holy, 
unfailing  dove, 

"  White,  radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely  pure," 


I-  - 


rr\s.  a.  Dlace, — thc  tall,  stealthy  fellow,  wMl 


128  **  f  n  Cleat  S)ceam  mb  Solemn  lD(6iom'» 

the  small  cruel  eye, — the  end, — what  was  go- 
ing on  elsewhere  on  that  same  day, — "  the 
hour  and  the  power  of  darkness," — the  eter- 
nity and  the  omnipotence  of  light  and  love,— ^ 
•*  the  exceeding  bitter  cry," — "  the  loud  voice,* 
Mid  "  It  is  finished," — was  there  not  herd 
something  for  the  highest  fantasy,  some  glimps-J 
of  "  the  throne  and  equipage  of  Cxod*s  almighl- 
iness  "  ? 

The  above  dreamer  was  the  well-known  (on 
nis  own  side  of  the  Tweed)  A.  S,  Logan^  sher- 
iff of  Forfarshire.  He  was  the  successor, 
but  in  no  wise  the  ape,  in  the  true  Yorick  line, 
— "  infinite  jest,  most  excellent  fancy," — of  the 
still  famous  Peter  Robertson,  who  served  him- 
self heir  to  that  grotesque,  sardonic  wit,  John 
Clerk  of  Eldin. 

Logan  differed  from  each  as  one  wine  or 
one  quaint  orchid — those  flower-jesters  which 
seem  always  making  faces  and  fun  at  us  and 
all  nature — from  another.  He  had  not  the 
merciless  and  too  often  unspeakable  Swiftian 
humor  of  Lord  Eldin,  nor  the  sustained,  wild 
burlesque  and  jocosity  of  Lord  Robertson; 
but  he  had  more  imagination  and  thought,  was 
more  kindly  affectioned  than  either,  and  his 


*"tn  wicar  2>tcam  anD  solemn  Dfefoiu"  x»« 

wit  was  more  humorous,  his  humor  more  witty. 
Robertson  was  a  wonderful  being :  it  is  not 
easy  to  exaggerate  his  comic  powers.  A  natu- 
ral son  of  Falstaff,  he  had  his  father's  body  as 
well  as  soul,  such  a  mass  of  man,  such  an  ex- 
panse of  countenance, — probably  the  largest 
face  known  among  men, — such  eyes  gleaming 
and  rolling  behind  his  spectacles,  from  out 
their  huge  rotundity,  chubby-cheeked,  and  by 
way  of  innocent,  like  a  Megalopis  Garagantua 
unweaned, — no  more  need  of  stuffing  for  his 
father's  part  than  had  Stephen  Keiijble  ;  while 
within  was  no  end  of  the  same  rich,  glorious, 
over-topping  humor;  not  so  much  an  occa- 
sional spate  of  it,  much  less  a  tap.  or  a  pump ; 
not  even  a  perennial  spring;  rather  say  an 
artesian  well,  gushing  out  forever  by  hogs- 
heads, as  if  glad  to  escape  from  its  load  of 
superincumbent  clay ;  or  like  those  fountains 
of  the  great  oil  deep  which  are  astonishing  us 
all.  To  set  Peter  a-going  was  like  tapping  the 
Haggis  i  1  that  Nox  Ambrosiana,  when  Tickler 
fled  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  "  The  Shepherd  ^* 
began  stripping  himself  to  swim  ;  the  imperial 
Christopher  warding  off  the  tide  with  his  crutch 
in  the  manner  a:;;;d  with  the  success  of  Mrs. 
Partington, — so  rich,  so  all'encompassing^  so 
9 


130  **  tn  Clear  Bream  auD  Solemn  DiBion,** 

•*  finely  confused  "  was  his  flood  of  Rabelaisian 
fun.  I  dare  say  most  of  us  know  the  trick 
played  him  by  his  old  chum,  John  Lockhart 
(what  a  contrast  in  mind  and  body,  in  eye  and 
voice !),  when  reviewing  his  friend's  trashy 
**  Gleams  of  Thought  "  in  the  Quarterly^  how 
he  made  the  printer  put  into  the  copy  for  the 
poet  this  epitaph, — 

**  Here  lies  that  peerless  paper-lord,  Lord  Peter, 
Who  broke  the  laws  of  God  and  man  and  meter.'* 

There  were  eight  or  ten  more  lines,  but  Peter 
destroyed  them  in  his  wrath. 

In  the  region  of  wild  burlesque,  where  the 
ridiculous,  by  its  intensity  and  mass,  becomes 
the  sublime,  I  never  met  any  one  to  approach 
**  Peter,"  except  our  amazing  Medea-Robson. 
He  could  also  abate  a  tiresome  prig  as  effect- 
ually as  Sydney  Smith  or  Harry  Cockburn, 
though  in  a  different  and  ruder  way.  He  had 
face  for  anything;  and  this  is  by  half  (the 
latter  half)  the  secret  of  success  in  joking,  as 
it  is  in  more  things.  Many  of  us — glum,  mute, 
and  inglorious  as  we  are — have  jokes,  which, 
if  we  could  but  do  them  justice,  and  fire  them 
off  with  a  steady  hand  and  eye,  would  make 
great  havoc }  but^  like  the  speeches  we  all 


>*ln  Clear  Bream  anJ)  Solemn  Dlsion/'  131 

make  to  ourselves  when  leturning  from  our 
Debating  Society, — those  annihilating  replies, 
those  crushing  sarcasms, — they  are  only  too 
late,  and  a  day  after  the  fair.  But  Lord  Peter 
had  no  misgivings.  When  quite  a  lad,  though 
even  then  having  that  spacious  expanse  of 
yisage,  that  endless  amount  of  face,  capable 
of  any  amplitude  of  stare,  like  a  hillside,  and 
a  look  of  intentional  idiocy  and  innocence,  at 
once  appalling  and  touching, — at  a  dinner- 
party, the  mirth  of  which  was  being  killed  by 
some  Oxford  swell,  who  was  forever  talking 
Greek  and  quoting  his  authorities, — Peter  who 
was  opposite  him,  said,  with  a  solemnity 
amounting  to  awe  :  "  Not  to  interrupt  you,  sir  I 
but  it  strikes  me  that  Dionysius  of  Halicarfias- 
sus  is  against  you,"  keeping  his  eyes  upon  his 
victim  with  the  deepest  seriousness, — eyes  like 
ordinary  eyes  seen  close  to  the  big  end  of  an 
operu-glass  of  great  magnifying  power,  opales- 
cent, with  fluctuating  blinks  as  if  seen  through 
water,  the  lamps  as  of  some  huge  sea  moon- 
calf on  the  gambol  through  its  deep.  The 
prig  reeled,  but  recovered,  and  said :  "  If  I 
mistake  not,  sir,  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus 
was  dead  ninety  or  so  years  before  my  date." 
**  To  be  sure,  he  was.     I  very  much  beg  youi 


f3^  '•  Un  Clear  S)ream  anD  solemn  iDtsiom" 

pardon,  sir;  I  always  do  make  that  mistake; 
i  meant  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  !  " 

But,  indeed,  there  was  the  sad  thing, — that 
which  is  so  touchingly  referred  to  by  Sydney 
Smith  in  his  lecture  on  Wit  and  Humor, — he 
became  the  slave  of  his  own  gifts.  He  gravi- 
tated downwards ;  and  life  and  law,  friends 
and  everything,  existed  chiefly  to  be  joked  on. 
Still,  he  was  a  mighty  genius  in  his  own  line, 
and  more,  as  I  have  said,  like  Falstaff  than 
any  man  out  of  Shakespeare.  There  is  not 
much  said  or  done  by  that  worthy — "  that  ir- 
regular humorist,"  "that  damned  Epicurean 
rascal,'*  "  a  goodly,  portly  man,  i'  faith,  and  a 
corpulent,  of  a  cheerful  look,  a  pleasing  eye, 
and  a  most  noble  presence  " — which  Peter 
might  not  have  said  and  done,  from  the  wildest, 
grossest  joke  up  to  "  babbling  of  green  fields  ; " 
for  "  Peter  "  had  a  gentle,  sweet,  though  feeb- 
lose,  and  too  often  falsetto,  strain  of  poetic 
feeling  and  fancy. 

In  active  or  receptive  imagination,  Logan 
was  infinitely  above  him  ;  he  had  far  too  much 
of  the  true  stuff  and  sense  of  poetry,  ever  to  have 
written  the  "  Gleams  of  Thought  "  which  their 
author,  and,  of  course,  no  one  else,  thought 
not  only  poetry,  but  that  of  the  purest  water. 


••fn  Clear  Dream  ano  solemn  XDieion**'  133 

Can  an  impoetical  man  have  poetic  dreams  ? 
I  doubt  if  he  can.  Your  ordinary  man  may 
dr^am  the  oddest,  wildest,  laughablest,  funniest 
nonsense.  He  will  not  likely  dream  such  a 
dream  as  the  one  I  have  recorded.  Shake- 
speare might  have  dull  dreams,  but  I  question 
if  Mr.  Tupper  could  have  dreamt  of  a  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  any  more  than  a  man 
will  speak  a  language  in  his  sleep  he  never 
learned  or  heard. 

If  the  master  of  the  house  is  asleep,  and 
some  imp  of  darkness  and  misrule  sets  to 
playing  all  sorts  of  tricks,  turning  everything 
topsy-turvy,  ransacking  all  manner  of  hidden 
places,  making  every  kind  of  grotesque  con- 
junction, and  running  riot  in  utter  incongruity 
and  drollness,  he  still  must  be  limited  to  what 
he  finds  in  the  house, — to  his  master's  goods 
and  chattels.  So  I  believe  is  it  with  dreams  ; 
the  stuff  they  are  made  of  lies  ready  made,  is 
all  found  on  the  premises  to  the  imp's  hand  ; 
it  is  for  him  to  weave  it  into  what  fantastic 
and  goblin  tapestry  he  may.  The  kaleidoscope 
can  make  nothing  of  anything  that  is  not  first 
put  in  at  the  end  of  the  tube,  though  no  mor- 
tal can  predict  what  the  next  shift  may  be. 
Charles  Lamb  was  uucasy  at  the  time  he  was 


134  **  "fftt  Clear  £»ream  anD  Solemn  tDfefon,'* 

at  Keswick  visiting  Southey;  and  he  escaped 
to  London  and  "  the  sweet  security  of  streets  " 
as  fast  as  the  mail  could  carry  him,  confessing 
afterwards  that  he  slept  ill  "  down  there,"  and 
was  sure  "  those  big  fellows,"  w^ho  were  always 
lying  all  about,  Skiddaw  and  Helvellyn,  "  came 
down  much  nearer  him  at  night  and  looked  at 
him!^^  So  we  often  feel  as  if  in  the  night  of 
the  body  and  the  soul,  when  the  many-eyed  day- 
light of  the  pure  reason  is  gone,  heights  and 
depths,  and  many  unspeakable  things,  come 
into  view,  looming  vaster,  and  deeper,  and 
nearer  in  that  cajnera-obscura,  when  the  shut- 
ters are  shut  and  the  inner  lights  lit,  and 

"  Whep  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
Wfc  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past," 

and  often  play  such  fantastic  tricks.  But  the 
dreamer  is  the  same  ens  rationis,  the  same 
unis  quis,  as  the  waking  man  who  tells  the 
dream.  Philip  who  was  drunk,  and  Philip 
■who  is  sober  and  remembers  his  lapse,  is  one 
Philip.  So  it  is  only  an  imaginative  man 
who  can  have  imaginative  dreams.  You 
must  first  put  in  before  you  can  take  out. 
As   Samson   long    ago  put  it  to  the  Phili* 


•*ln  Clear  Dream  anD  Solemn  IDiafon/'  135 

tines,  "  Out  of  the  eater  comes  forth  meat ; 
out  of  the  strong  comes  forth  the  sweetness." 
No  food  Hke  lion's  marrow ;  no  tenderness 
like  the  tenderness  of  a  strong  nature.  Or  as 
old  Fuller,  with  a  noticeable  forecasting  of 
the  modern  doctrine  of  foods,  as  delivered  by 
Prout  and  all  the  doctors,  has  it,  "  Omne  par 
nutrit  suum  par;  the  vitals  of  the  body  are 
most  strengthened  by  feeding  on  such  foods 
as  are  likest  unto  them," — a  word  this  of  v/arn- 
ing  as  well  as  good  cheer.  He  that  sows  to 
the  flesh,  and  he  who  sows  to  the  spirit,  need 
not  doubt  what  they  are  severally  to  reap. 
We  all,  more  or  less,  sow  to  both ;  it  is  the 
plus  that  makes  the  difference  between  others 
and  ourselves,  and  between  our  former  and 
present  selves. 

I  might  give  instances  of  my  friend's  wit 
and  humor ;  but  I  could  not,  in  trying  to  do 
so,  do  him  anything  but  injustice.  His  jokes 
were  all  warm  and  at  once.  He  did  not  load 
his  revolver  before  going  to  dinner,  and  dis- 
charge all  its  barrels  at  his  friends.  His  fun 
arose  out  of  the  sociality  of  the  hour,  and  was 
an  integral  part  of  it ;  and  he  never  repeated 
fois  jokes.  He  did  not  pick  up  his  bullet  and 
pocket  it  and  fire  it  off  again,    But  I  remember 


136  **  f  n  Clear  5)ceam  anD  Solemn  Vision."* 

well  his  first  shot  at  me, — it  was  not  bad  fof 
nineteen.  He  and  I  were  coming  down  tha 
Bridges  from  college,  and  I  saw  an  unkempt, 
bareheaded  Cowgate  boy,  fluttering  along  in 
full-blown  laughter  and  rags.  He  had  a  skull 
like  Sir  Walter's,  round  and  high.  I  said, 
''Logan,  look  at  that  boy's  head, — did  you 
ever  see  the  like  of  it  ?  it's  like  a  tower/* 
*'  Yes,  at  any  rate  a  fortalice." 

You  know  the  odd  shock  of  a  real  joke 
going  off  like  a  pistol  or  a  squib  at  your  ear. 
It  goes  through  you.  That  same  week  another 
quite  as  good  squib  went  off  in  church.  A 
cousin,  now  long  dead,  was  listening  with  me 
ta  a  young  preacher-puppy,  whose  sermon  was 
one  tissue  of  unacknowledged  plagiarisms  of 
the  most  barefaced  kind.  We  were  doing 
little  else  than  nudge  each  other  as  one 
amazing  crib  succeeded  another, — for  this  ass 
did  know  his  masters'  crib.  William  whispered 
to  me,  "  Look  at  him !  I  declare  his  very 
■whiskers  are  curving  into  inverted  commas  ;  '* 
and  it  w^as  true,  such  was  the  shape  of  his 
■whiskers,  that  his  face,  and  especially  his 
grinning  and  complacent  mouth,  which  they 
embraced,  looked  one  entire  quotation. 

Lord  Brougham  and  many  others  think  that 


•fn  Clear  Dream  anD  Solemn  lt)(s(om"  137 

dreaming  occurs  only  between  sleeping  and 
waking, — the  stepping  of  the  soul  into  or  out 
of  the  land  of  forgetfulness, — and  that  it  is 
momentary  in  its  essence  and  action,  though 
often  ranging  over  a  lifetime  or  more, — 

*  Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  bellied  night 
That  in  a  spleen  reveals  both  earth  and  heaven,** 

There  is  much  in  fa-v  or  of  this.  One  hopes 
the  soul — animula^  blandicla,  vagula — may 
sometimes  sleep  the  dreamless  sleep  of 
health,  as  well  as  its  tired  drudge.  Dreaming 
may  be  a  sort  of  dislocation  of  our  train  of 
ideas,  a  sort  of  jumble  as  it  is  shunted  off 
the  main  line  into  its  own  siding  at  the  station 
for  the  night.  The  train  may  stop  there  and 
then,  for  anything  we  know  ;  but  it  may  not, 
for  the  like  reason  the  telegraph-office  is  not 
ppen  during  night.  Ideality,  imagination,  that 
*ense  of  the  merely  beautiful  and  odd  which 
ielights  to  marry  all  sorts  of  queer  couples, — 
which  entertains  the  rest  of  the  powers,  when 
^hey  are  tired,  or  at  their  meals,  telling  them 
and  making  them  stories,  out  of  its  own  head,-^ 
this  family  poet,  and  minstrel,  and  mime, 
whom  we  all  keep,  has  assuredly  its  wildest^ 


138  **  f  n  Clear  Bream  ar»o  Solemn  IPision/* 

richest  splendors  at  the  breaking  up  of  the 
company  for  the  night,  or  when  it  arouses 
them  on  the  morrow,  when  it  puts  out  or  lets 
in  the  lights ;  for  many  a  dream  awakes  us 
*'  scattering  the  rear  of  darkness  thin.'* 

In  optics,  if  you  make  a  hole  in  the  shutter 
at  noon,  or  stick  a  square  bit  of  blackness  on 
the  pane,  and  make  the  rays  from  the  hole  or 
around  the  square  to  pass  through  a  prism, 
then  we  have,  if  we  let  them  fall  on  white- 
ness and  catch  them  right,  those  colors  we  all 
know  and  rejoice  in,  that  Divine  spectrum^-^ 

••  Still  young  and  fine," 

as 

••  When  Terah,  Nahor,  Haran,  Abram,  Lot, 
The  youthful  world's  gray  fathers  in  one  knot, 
Did  with  attentive  looks  watch  every  hour 
For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each  shower.** 

The  v.'hite  light  of  heaven — himeii  siccum—' 
opens  itself  out  as  it  were,  tells  its  secret,  and 
lies  like  a  glorious  border  on  the  Edge  o'  Dark 
(as  imaginative  Lancashire  calls  the  twilight, 
as  we  Scotchmen  call  it  the  Gloamin'),  making 
the  boundaries  between  light  and  darkness 
a  border  of  flowers,  made  out  by  each.  Is 
there  not  something  to  think  of  in  "  the  Father 


**"fr«  Viiear  Dream  ano  Solemn  \Dieion,'*  139 

of  lights  "  thus  beautifying  the  limits  of  His 
light,  and  of  His  darkness,  which  to  Him 
alone  is  light  so  that  here  burns  a  sort  of 
"  dim  religious  light," — a  sacred  glory, — where 
we  may  take  off  our  shoes  and  rest  and  wor- 
ship ?  Is  not  our  light  rounded  with  darkness, 
as  our  life  is  with  a  dream  ?  and,  the  greater 
the  area  of  our  light,  of  our  truth,  won  from 
the  vast  and  formless  Infinite,  the  ampler,  too, 
is  the  outer  ring, — the  iridescent  edge  lying 
upon  the  Unknown, — making  a  rainbow  round 
the  central  throne  cf  the  Eternal.  And  is  not 
the  light  of  knowledge,  after  all,  the  more 
lovely,  the  more  full  of  color,  and  the  more 
pleasant  to  the  eye,  when  lying  on  and  indicat- 
ing what  is  beyond,  and  past  all  finding  out; 
making  glorious  the  skirts  of  "  the  majesty  of 
darkness  "  ?  It  is  at  his  rising  out  of,  and  his 
returning  into  "  old  night,"  that  the  sun  is 
in  the  full  flush  of  his  plighted  clouds,  and 
swims  in  the  depths  of  his  "  daffodil  sky," 
making  the  outgoings  of  the  evening  and  of 
the  morning  to  rejoice  before  Him  and  us. 

But,  thus  talking  of  dreams,  I  am  off  into  a 
dream  !  A  simile  is  not  always  even  an  illus- 
tration, much  less  an  analogy,  and  more  less 
an  argument  or  proof.    As  you  see,  every  0119 


I40  **  Hn  Clear  2)team  ano  solemn  Disfon/' 

likes  to  tell  his  own  dreams, — so  long  as  he 
has  tliem  by  the  tail,  which  soon  slips, — and 
few  care  to  listen  to  them,  not  even  one's  wife, 
as  Sir  Walter  found  to  his  cost.  And  so, 
good-natured  reader,  let  me  end  by  asking 
you  to  take  down  the  fourth  volume  of 
Crabbe's  Works,  and  turning  to  page  ii6,  read 
his  "World  of  Dreams.'*  It  is  the  iashion 
nowadays,  when  he  is  read  at  all, — v/hich  I 
fear,  is  seldom, — to  call  Crabbe  coarse,  even 
dull,  a  mere  sturdy  and  adroit  versifier  of 
prose  as  level  as  his  native  marshes,  without 
one  glimpse  of  the  vision,  one  act  of  the  faculty 
divine.  Read  these  verses  again,  and  ask 
yourself.  Is  this  a  daguerreotj^per  of  the  Boeo- 
tian crimes  and  virtues,  the  sorrows  and  the 
rumors,  of  his  dull,  rich  Essex  and  its  coast  ? 
I  wish  v/e  had  more  of  this  manly  imagination  ; 
Tve  have  almost  too  much  now  of  mere  wing 
and  color,  mere  flights,  mere  foliage,  and,  it 
may  be,  blossoms, — little  fruit  and  timber. 
The  imagination,  like  a  gorgeous  sunset,  or  a 
butterfly's  wing,  tells  no  story,  has  no  back- 
bone, is  forever  among  the  clouds  and  flowers, 
or  down  deep  in  denial  and  despair.  The 
imagination  should  inform,  and  quickeiv> 
%nd   flush,  and    compact,    and    clarify    the 


*•  lln  Clear  ii)rcnm  an:)  Solemn  IDisioiu"  141 

entire  soul ;  and  it  should  come  home  from 
circling  in  the  azure  depths  of  air,  and  have 
its  "seat  in  reason,  and  be  judicious,"  and  be 
a  bird  rather  than  a  butterfly,  or  firefly,  or 
huge  moth  of  night. 

Many  months  after  this  little  notice  ap- 
peared, Mrs.  Logan  gave  me  the  following 
fragment  found  in  her  husband's  desk, — from 
which  it  appears  he  had  begun  to  put  his 
dream  into  form  ; — 

JUDAS  THE  BETRAYER,— HIS   ENDINa 

•T  is  noon, — yet  desolate  and  dim 

The  lonely  landscape  lies ; 
For  shortly  after  day  begun, 
Betwixt  it  and  the  mounting  sun, 

A  cloud  went  crawling  up  the  skies. 
From  the  sea  it  rose  all  slowly,— 
Thin,  and  gray,  and  melancholy,— 

But  gathered  blackness  as  it  went; 
Till,  when  at  noon  the  stately  sun 

Paused  on  his  steep  descent, 
This  ghastly  cloud  had  coiled  itself 

Before  his  beamy  tent : 
Where  like  a  conscious  thing  it  lay. 
To  shut  from  men  the  living  day. 

And  yet  all  vainly  as  it  seemed ; 

For  on  each  side,  beyond  its  shade, 
The  sweet,  triumphant  sunbeams  gleame*!^ 

Rejoicing  in  the  light  they  made. 


142   **ln  Clear  2)ream  an&  Solemn  tDteioiu** 

On  all  they  shone  except  that  dell, 
On  which  the  shadow  darkly  felL 
**  Q  bear  me  to  yon  mountain  brow 

That  I  may  look  below ; 
All  that  is  in  that  unblest  dell 

Full  fainly  would  I  know. 
Why  is  the  sun  to  it  denied  ? 
O  bear  me  to  yon  mountain  side.* 
We  cleave  the  air,  now  we  are  tiieiC> 

And  what  is  it  you  see  ? 

•  A  little  marsh,  whence,  low  and  hairili 

A  strange  sound  comes  to  me. 

I  marvel  what  that  sound  may  be. 
For  strange  it  lights  upon  mine  ear ; 
My  heart  it  fills  with  more  than  fear. 

With  something  of  despair. 
This  well  I  know,  't  is  not  the  sound 
Of  any  beast  that  walks  the  ground. 
Of  any  bird  that  skims  the  air.** 
Right  well  you  guess,  for  't  is  the  wail 
Of  a  lost  soul  in  endless  bale, — 
The  reward  of  mortal  sinning,— 
Endless  bale,  but  now  beginning ; 
Nay,  do  not  turn  away  your  eyes, 

For  long  before  the  sun  now  shining 

Shall  be  towards  yonder  world  declining^ 
In  that  low  dell  the  Lord's  Betrayer  diea^ 

With  fearful  horror  and  surprise 
On  that  low  dell  I  fixed  mine  eyes. 
The  hills  came  down  on  every  side, 
Xjssmxtg  a  little  space  between. 


•*!«  Clear  5)ieam  anD  Solemn  IDlsion/'  143 

The  ground  of  which,  scarce  five  rods  widfl^ 
Was  of  a  cold  rank  green  ; 

And  where  it  sloped  down  to  the  fen, 
Built  part  of  reeds  and  part  of  wood, 
A  low  half-ruined  hut  there  stood,— 

For  man  no  home,  for  beast  no  den,— 

Yet  through  the  openings  might  be  sectt 

The  moving  of  a  form  within. 

By  this  the  sound  had  passed  away. 

And  silence  like  a  garment  lay 

A  moment  on  the  little  lake. 

•    *    *    *  whose  surface  spake 

No  tale  of  wakening  breeze  or  sun, 

But  choked  with  reeds  all  rank  and  duaj  \ 

"Which  seemed  to  me  as  if  they  stirred 

And  shivered,  though  no  wind  was  heardj 

They  gave  a  shrill  and  mournful  sounc^ 
rr  was  like,  and  yet  unlike,  the  sighing 
You  hear  in  woods  when  the  year  is  dyinji 

And  leaves  lie   hickly  on  the  ground. 
As  creeping]    my  ear  it  sought, 
It  might  be  fan   -,  yet  methought 
That,  of  all  sounds  that  live  in  air 
This  sounded  likest  to  despair. 

All  the  while, 
Close  by  the  hut  a  great  white  dove     \ 
(O  sight  of  wonder  and  of  love  !) 

Sits  with  a  quiet  and  brooding  aif<— 
White,  and  of  none  other  hue. 
By  its  deep  yearning  eyes  of  blue. 
And  by  no  sign  beside,  I  knew 


144  **  '^^  ^^^^^  2)ream  anD  Solemn  DteJoau' 

It  was  a  guardian  spirit  of  air. 

What  doth  the  lonely  creature  there? 
(To  each  man  by  pitying  Heaven 
One  of  these  at  birth  is  given ; 

And  such  their  love  and  constancy. 
That  through  all  depths  of  sin  and  sadneM 
Tempting  hope  and  baffling  madness. 

They  ever,  ever  with  us  be. 
Nor,  till  proud  despair  we  cherish. 
Will  they  leave  our  souls  to  perish.) 

What  doth  the  lonely  creature  there ^ 
•*Yon  spirit  quitteth  not  /lis  side 

To  whom  he  hath  been  given, 
Whilst  yet  his  heart  has  not  defied 

The  wrath  and  grace  of  Heaven, 
Nor  can  his  guardian  watch  be  brokea 

Till  this  defiance  shall  be  spoken 
By  Judas  the  Betrayer." 

Hold  on  thy  watch,  thou  blessed  Bird? 

One  moment  leave  it  not : 
A  heart  of  faith  even  might  be  stirred 

To  doubt  in  such  a  spot. 
Of  him — the  wretched  traitor — ^friend, 

Thou  long-forbearing  dove ! 
Let  no  despairing  words  offend 

Thy  faithfulness  and  love ; 
For  in  the  dark  extremes  of  ill 
The  tongue  will  disobey  the  will, 
And  words  of  sin  the  lips  will  partf* 
Whilst  holy  feelings  fill  the  heart! 


**fn  Clear  2)ceam  anD  Solemn  \t)lston/'  14^ 

It  is  another  bird, — and  lo  I 

Rounding  the  corner  of  the  hut, 
It  Cometh  silently  and  slow 

"With  outstretched  head  and  eyes  half  ihH 
The  feathers  do  not  hide  its  skin; 
Long  is  its  neck,  its  legs  are  thin,— 
'T  is  plain  there  is  no  health  within. 
It  is  the  bird  whose  song  so  harsh. 

But  lately  sore  dismayed  me: 
Upward  it  walketh  from  the  mar^ 

It  treadeth  cunningly. 
Too  foul  it  is  and  melancholy 

To  live  on  the  upper  ground; 
And  I  know  it  for  a  thing  unholy. 

On  some  bad  errand  bound. 

It  rounds  the  comer  of  the  hut, 

It  stops  and  peers  upon  the  dove: 
The  unconscious  creature  sees  it  not. 

So  full  are  its  two  eyes  with  love. 
On  the  dove  it  peers,  and  its  head  the  whili 

It  pusheth  out  and  it  draweth  in  ; 
And  it  smileth,  if  that  a  bird  may  smile. 

At  the  thought  and  hope  of  a  joyous  sitk 
In  a  moment  it  thrusts  its  grisly  »ieck 

With  a  silent  jerk  into  the  lake; 
In  a  moment  it  lifteth  itself  erect. 

And,  in  its  bill,  a  snake. 
The  snake  is  round,  and  small,  and  cold^ 
And  as  full  of  venom  as  it  can  hold. 

With  three  long  steps,  all  without 
Close  to  the  dove  it  cometh  i 
SO 


S46  **  "ffn  Clear  2)ream  anD  Solemn  Disfoiu 

That  dreams  no  ill,  for  the  whUe  its  voice 

A  sweet,  low  music  hummeth. 
To  the  dove's  fair  neck  with  a  gentle  peck 

His  long  bill  he  applies  : 
At  the  touch  and  the  sound  the  dove  turns  rOMld 

With  a  look  of  meek  surprise, — 
*T  is  but  one  look,  for  swift  as  thought 
That  snaky  neck  is  round  its  throat. 


k  JACOBITE  FAMiW 


A  JACOBITE  FAMILY. 

Did  you  ever,  when  journeying  along  a  road 
at  night,  look  in  curiously  at  some  cottage 
window,  and,  like  a  happier  Enoch  Arden, 
watch  unseen  the  bright  life  within,  and  all  the 
naive  ongoings  of  the  household  ? 

Such  a  glimpse  of  the  inner  life  of  a  Jacob- 
ite family,  in  the  latter  half  of  last  century, 
we  have  had  the  privilege  of  enjoying,  and  we 
wish  we  could  tell  our  readers  half  as  vividly 
what  it  has  told  to  us.     We  shall  try. 

On  the  river  Don,  in  Aberdeenshire,  best 
known  to  the  world  by  its  Auld  Brig,  which 
Lord  Byron,  photography,  and  its  own  exceed- 
ing beauty  have  made  famous,  is  the  house  of 
Stoneywood,  four  miles  from  the  sea.  It  was 
for  many  generations  the  property  of  the 
Lords  Frazer  of  Muchals,  now  Castle  Frazer, 
one  of  the  noblest  of  the  many  noble  castles 
in  that  region,  where  some  now  nameless  archi- 
tect has  left  so  many  memorials  of  the  stately 
life  of  their  strong-brained  masters,  and  ef 
bis  own  quite  singular  genius  for  design. 

149 


150  B  S^acobite  ^famll^, 

Stoneywood  was  purchased  near  the  close 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  from  the  Lord  Frazer 
of  that  time,  by  John  Moir  of  Ellon,  who  had 
sold  his  own  estate,  as  tradition  tells,  in  the 
following  way :  —  Bailie  Gordon,  a  wealthy 
Edinburgh  merchant,  made  a  bargain  with  the 
Laird  of  Ellon,  when  in  his  cups,  to  sell  his 
estate  at  a  price  greatly  under  its  value. 
Gordon,  the  son  of  a  farmer  in  Bourtie,  was 
progenitor  of  the  Gordons  of  Haddo,  after- 
wards Earls  of  Aberdeen.  The  country  folk, 
who  lamented  the  passing  away  of  the  old 
family,  and  resented  the  trick  of  the  bailie, 
relieved  themselves  by  pronouncing  their 
heaviest  malediction,  and  prophesying  some 
near  and  terrible  j  udgment.  Strangely  enough, 
the  curse,  in  the  post  hoc  sense,  was  not 
causeless.  A  short  time  after  the  pur- 
chase an  awful  calamity  befell  Mr.  Gordon's 
family. 

Its  story  has  been  told  by  a  master  pen, 
that  which  gave  us  Matthew  Wald  and  Adam 
Blair y  and  the  murderer  M^Kean.  We  give  it 
for  the  benefit  of  the  young  generation,  which, 
we  fear,  is  neglecting  the  great  writers  of  the 
past  in  the  wild  relish  and  exuberance  of  the 
^••^  copious  present.    It  will  be  aa  evil  day 


B  Jacobite  jfamilB.  151 

when  the  world  only  reads  what  was  written 
yesterday  and  will  be  forgotten  to-morrow, 

**  Gabriel  was  a  preacher  or  licentiate  of  the 
Kirk,  employed  as  domestic  tutor  in  a  gentle- 
man's family  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  had  for 
pupils  two  fine  boys  of  eight  or  ten  years  of 
age.  The  tutor  entertained,  it  seems,  some 
partiality  for  the  Abigail  of  the  children's 
mother ;  and  it  so  happened  that  one  of  his 
pupils  observed  him  kiss  the  girl  one  day  in 
passing  through  an  anteroom,  where  she  was 
sitting.  The  little  fellow  carried  this  interest- 
ing piece  of  intelligence  to  his  brother,  and 
both  of  them  mentioned  it,  by  way  of  a  good 
joke,  to  their  mother  the  same  evening. 
Whether  the  lady  had  dropped  some  hint  of 
what  she  heard  to  her  maid,  or  whether  she 
had  done  so  to  the  preacher  himself,  I  have 
not  learned ;  but  so  it  was,  that  he  found  he 
had  been  discovered,  and  by  what  means  also. 
The  idea  of  having  been  detected,  in  such  a 
trivial  trespass  was  enough  to  poison  forever 
the  spirit  of  this  juvenile  Presbyterian.  His 
whole  soul  oecame  filled  with  the  blackest 
demons  of  rage,  and  he  resolved  to  sacrifice 
to  his  indignation  the  instruments  of  what  he 


IS2  a  Jacobite  ^arndc* 

conceived  to  be  so  deadly  a  disgrace.  It  waj 
Sunday,  and  after  going  to  church  as  usual 
with  his  pupils,  he  led  them  out  to  walk  in  the 
country, — for  the  ground  on  which  the  New 
Town  of  Edinburgh  now  stands  was  then  con- 
sidered as  the  country  by  the  people  of  Edin- 
b  rgh.  After  passing  calmly,  to  all  appear- 
ance, through  several  of  the  green  fields  which 
have  now  became  streets  and  squares,  he  came 
to  a  place  more  lonely  than  the  rest,  and  there, 
drawing  a  large  clasp-knife  from  his  pocket, 
he  at  once  stabbed  the  elder  of  his  pupils  to 
the  heart.  The  younger  boy  gazed  on  him  for 
a  moment,  and  then  fled  widi  shrieks  of 
terror;  but  the  murderer  pursued  with  the 
bloody  knife  in  his  hand,  and  slew  him  also  as 
soon  as  he  was  overtaken.  The  whole  of  this 
shocking  scene  was  observed  distinctly  from 
the  Old  Town  by  innumerable  crov/ds  of 
people,  who  were  near  enough  to  see  every 
motion  of  the  murderer,  and  hear  the  cries  of 
the  infants,  although  the  deep  ravine  b^tvveen 
them  and  the  place  of  blood  was  far  more 
than  sufficient  to  prevent  any  possibility  of 
rescue.  The  tutor  sat  down  upon  the  spot, 
immediately  after  having  concluded  his  butch- 
ery, as  if  in  a  stupor  of  despair  and  madness, 


a  Jacobite  Jfamilg.  153 

and  was  only  roused  to  his  recollection  by  the 
touch  of  the  hands  that  seized  him. 

"  It  so  happened  that  the  magistrates  of  the 
city  were  assembled  together  in  their  council- 
room,  waiting  till  it  should  be  time  for  them 
to  walk  to  church  in  procession  (as  is  their 
custom),  when  the  crowd  drew  near  with  their 
captive.  The  horror  of  the  multitude  was 
communicated  to  them,  along  with  their  intel- 
ligence, and  they  ordered  the  wretch  to  be 
brought  at  once  into  their  presence.  It  is  an 
old  law  in  Scotland,  that  when  a  murderer  is 
caught  in  the  very  act  of  guilt  (or,  as  they  call 
it,  red  hand),  he  may  be  immediately  executed 
without  any  formality  or  delay.  Never  surely 
could  a  more  fitting  occasion  be  found  for 
carrying  this  old  law  into  effect  GabrieJf  was 
hanged  within  an  hour  after  the  deed  was 
done,  the  red  knife  being  suspended  from  his 
neck,  and  the  blood  of  the  'nnocents  scarcely 
dry  upon  his  fingers."  * 

The  boys  were  the  sons  of  the  nev.'  Laird  of 

^llon.     It  adds  something  to  the  dreadfulness 

of  the  story  that  it  was  the  woman  who  urged 

the  wretched  youth  to  the  deed.     We  renaen^ 

*  Peter's  Letters  to  his  Kinsfolk.  Vol.  U» 


154  5acobite  Tamils. 

ber  well  the  GahrieTs  Road^  this  lane  leading 
up  past  "  Ambrose's,"  the  scene  of  the  famous 
Nodes.  It  is  now  covered  by  the  new  Regis- 
ter Office  buildings. 

But  to  return  to  the  ex-Laird  of  Ellon. 
Mr.  Moir,  having  lost  one  estate,  forthwith  set 
about  acquiring  another,  and  purchased  Castle 
Frazer,  its  lord  having  got  into  difficulties. 
The  lady  of  the  Castle,  loath,  we  doubt  not, 
to  leave  her  "  bonnie  house,"  persuaded  Mr. 
Moir  to  take  instead  the  properties  of  Stoney- 
wood,  Watterton,  Clinterty,  and  Greenburn, 
on  Don  side,  which  were  afterwards  conjoined 
under  the  name  of  the  barony  of  Stoneywood. 
The  grateful  Lady  of  Frazer  sent  along  with 
the  title-deeds  a  five-guinea  gold-piece, — a  tal- 
isman which  was  religiously  preserved  for 
many  generations. 

The  family  of  Stoneywood  seem,  from  the 
earliest  record  down  to  their  close,  to  have 
been  devotedly  attached  to  the  house  of  Stuart. 
In  the  old  house  there  long  hung  a  portrait  of 
Bishop  Juxon,  who  attended  Charles  I.  on  the 
scaffold,  and  through  this  prelate  must  have 
come  a  still  mt)re  precious  relic,  long  preserved 
in  the  family,  and  which  is  now  before  us,— 
the  Bible  which  the  doomed  King  put  into  tht 


il  3acooiic  ifamUB,  155 

hands  of  the  Bishop  on  the  scaffold,  with  the 
word  "  Remember,"  having  beforehand  taken 
off  his  cloak  and  presented  it  and  the  insignia 
of  the  Garter  to  the  same  faithful  minister  and 
friend  p  this  is  one  of  our  glimpses.  We  have 
the  sacred  and  royal  book  before  us  now, — a 
quarto,  printed  in  1637,  hound  in  blue  velvet 
and  richly  embroidered  and  embossed  with 
gold  and  silver  face.  There  is  the  crown  and 
the  Prince  of  Wales's  feathers,  showing  it  had 
belonged  to  Charles  II.  when  prince.  He 
must  have  given  it  to  his  hapless  father,  as  the 
C.  P.  is  changed  into  C.  R.  Though  faded,  it 
looks  princely  still. 

One  of  its  blank  leaves,  on  which  was 
written  "  Charles  Stuart  ano.  dom.  1649," 
was,  along  with  the  gold-piece,  pilfered  aj 
follows : — • 

**  Miss  Moir,  who  was  rather  of  an  unaccoiti* 
modating  temper  remained  alone  at  Stoney- 
wood  for  a  year  longer,  and  in  fact  until  the  sale 
had  been  completed,  and  it  became  necessary 
to  quit.  The  retired  and  solitary  life  she  led 
during  this  last  period  was  taken  advantage  of 
by  a  woman  in  her  service,  of  the  name  of 
Margaret  Grant,  to   commit  various    theftSi 


f56  B  JacoMte  S&mil^. 

with  the  assistance  of  a  paramaur,  -who  hap- 
pened  unfortunately  to  be  a  blacksmith.  By 
his  means  they  got  the  charter-chest  opened, 
and  abstracted  thence  the  prophetic  gold- 
piece,  gifted  by  Lady  Fraser  two  hundred 
years  before,  and  also  Bishop  Juxon's  valuable 
legacy  of  King  Charles's  Bible  presented  to 
him  on  the  scaffold.  The  gold-piece  was  read- 
ily made  available,  and  was,  of  course,  never 
recovered ;  but  the  Bible  proved  to  be  a  more 
difficult  treasure  to  deal  with,  it  being  gener- 
ally known  in  the  county  to  be  an  heirloom 
of  the  Stoneywood  family,  and  accordingly, 
when  she  offered  it  for  sale  in  Aberdeen,  she 
became  aware  that  she  was  about  to  be  de* 
lected.  She  took  the  precaution  to  abscond, 
3nd  suspecting  that  mischief  might  come  of  so 
sacrilegious  a  theft,  she  came  by  night  to 
Stoneywood,  and  deposited  the  Bible  at  the 
foot  of  a  large  chestnut-tree  which  overshaded 
the  entrance  of  the  front  court  of  the  house, 
where  it  was  found  next  morning.  However,, 
it  did  not  return  altogether  unscathed  by  its 
excursion,  for  a  bookseller  in  Aberdeen,  to 
whom  it  had  been  offered  for  sale,  had  the 
cunning,  or  rather  the  rascality,  to  abstract 
the   blank  leaf  on  which  the  royal  martj'r's 


tk  SaccDite  iramilg.  s^i 

autograph  was  Inscribed,  which  he  managed  to 
paste  upon  another  old  Bible  so  dexterously 
as  not  to  be  easily  discovered,  and  actually 
profited  by  his  fraud,  in  disposing  of  his 
counterfeit  Bible  to  the  Earl  of  Fife  for  a  large 
sum  of  money,  and  in  whose  library  it  now 
figures  as  King  Charles's  Bible,  while  the 
original  still  remains  in  the  possession  of  the 
representative  of  the  family  to  whom  it  de- 
scended by  inheritance,  and  in  its  appearance 
bears  ample  testimony  to  its  authenticity." 

To  go  back  to  Stoneywood.  The  Laird  is 
now  there ;  his  eldest  son,  James,  has  married 
Jane,  eldest  daughter  of  Erskine  of  Pittoderie, 
and  the  young  bride  has  got  from  her  mother 
a  green  silk  purse  with  a  thousand  merks  in  it, 
and  the  injunction  never  to  borrow  from  the 
purse  except  in  some  great  extreiv.ity,  and  never 
to  forget  to  put  in  from  time  to  time  wha-t  she 
could  spare,  however  small,  ending  with  the 
wish,  "  May  its  sides  never  meet."  The 
daughter  was  worthy  of  the  mother,  and  became 
a  ^^fendy  wife/'  as  appears  by  the  following 
picturesque  anecdote.  Young  Moir  was  going 
to  the  neighboring  village  of  Greenburn  to  the 
fair  to  buy  cattle  \  the  green  purse  was  ia  r» 


t$S  B  ^acobtte  ifamflB. 

quisition,  and  his  wife,  then  nursing  her  first 
child,  went  with  him.  While  he  was  mak- 
ing his  market,  she  remained  outside,  and  ob- 
serving a  tidy  young  woman  sitting  by  the 
roadside,  suckling  her  child,  she  made  up  to 
her  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  Waiting,  she 
soon  got  as  hungry  for  her  own  baby  as  doubt- 
less it  was  for  her,  so  proposed  to  comfort 
herself  by  taking  the  woman's  child.  This 
was  done,  the  young  mother  considering  it  a 
great  honor  to  have  a  leddy's  milk  for  her 
baby.  I^Irs.  Moh",  not  wishing  to  be  disturbed 
or  recognized,  had  the  woman's  cloak  thrown 
over  her  head,  she  setting  off  into  the  fair  to 
see  what  her  husband  was  about.  She  was 
hardly  gone,  when  a  man  came  suddenly  be- 
hind Mrs.  Moir,  and  hastily  lifting  np  the 
lomer  of  the  plaid,  threw  something  into  her 
lap,  saying,  *  Tak'  tent  o'  that !  "  and  was  off 
before  Mrs.  !Moir  could  see  his  face.  In  her 
lap  was  the  gi  ^en  purse  with  all  its  gear  un- 
touched ! 

Emban-assed  with  her  extempore  nursling 
and  cloak,  she  could  not  go  to  her  husband, 
but  the  young  woman  returning,  she  went  at 
once  in  search ;  and  found  him  concluding  a 
bargain  for  some  cows.     He  asked  her  to  wait 


B  Jacobite  jfamUg.  159 

outside  the  tent  till  he  settled  with  the  dealer  j 
in  they  went ;  presently  a  cry  of  consternation' 
in  goes  the  purse-bearer,  counts  out  the  money, 
tables  it,  and  taking  her  amazed  "  man  "  by 
the  arm,  commanded  him  to  go  home. 

What  a  pleasant  little  tale  Boccaccio,  of 
Chaucer,  or  our  own  Dunbar  would  have  made 
of  this ! 

From  it  you  may  divine  much  of  the  charao 
ter  of  this  siccar  wife.  Ever  afterwards  when 
the  Stoneywood  couple  left  home  they  confided 
the  purse  to  their  body  servant,  John  Gunn ; 
for  in  those  days  no  gentleman  traveled 
without  his  purse  of  gold ;  and  although  we 
have  a  shrewd  guess  that  this  same  John  was 
in  the  secret  of  the  theft  and  the  recovery  of 
the  purse  on  the  fair  day,  he  was  as  incorrupt 
tible  ever  afterwards  as  is  Mr.  Gladstone  with, 
our  larger  purse. 

This  John  Gunn  was  one  of  those  now  extinct 
functionaries  who,  like  the  piper,  were  the  life* 
long  servants  of  the  house,  claiming  often  some 
kindred  with  the  chief,  and  with  entire  fidelity 
and  indeed  abject  submission,  mingling  a 
familiarity,  many  amusing  instances  of  which. 
are  given  in  Dean  Ramsay's  book,  and  by 
Miss  Stirling  Graham,     John,  though  pooi^ 


had  come  of  gentle  blood,  the  Gunns  of  Ros9» 
ihire  -,  he  went  into  the  army,  from  which,  his 
Highland  pride  being  wounded  by  some  affront, 
he  deserted,  and  joined  a  band  of  roving  gyp- 
sies called  Cairds.*  His  great  strength  and 
courage  soon  made  John  captain  of  his  band, 

*  We  all  remember  Sir  Walter's  song;  doubtless  our 
John  Gunn  was  "  a  superior  person,"  but  there  musi 
have  been  much  of  the  same  fierce,  perilous  stuff  ifl 
him,  and  the  same  fine  incoherence  in   his  tnnaaSr 

*  Donald  Caird  can  lilt  and  sing, 
Blithely  dance  the  Highland  fling; 
Drink  till  the  gudcman  be  blmd, 
Fleech  till  the  gudewife  be  kind; 
Hoop  a  leglan,  clout  a  pan, 
Or  crack  a  pow  wi'  ony  man ; 
Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird's  come  again. 

•*  Donald  Caird  can  wire  a  maukin, 
Kens  the  wiles  o'  dun-deer  staukin; 
Leisters  kipper,  makes  a  shift 
To  shoot  a  muir-fowl  i'  the  drift  t 
Water-bailiffs,  rangers,  keepers, 
He  can  wauk  when  they  are  sleepei»{ 
Not  for  bountith,  or  reward, 
Daur  they  mell  wi'  Donald  Caird. 

«  Donald  Caird  can  drink  a  gill, 
yast  as  hostler- wife  can  fill ; 


a  Jacobite  jfam«2.  i6i 

which  for  years  levied  black-mail  over  the 
county  of  Aberdeen. 

John  got  tired  of  his  gypsy  life,  and  entered 
Stoneywood's  service,  retaining,  however,  his 
secret  headship  of  the  Cairds,  and  using  this 
often  in  Robin  Hood  fashion,  generously,  for 
his  friends.  So  little  was  this  shady  side  of 
his  life  known  in  the  countryside,  that  his  skill 
in  detecting  theft  and  restoring  lost  property 
was  looked  upon  as  not  *''  canny,"  and  due  to 
"  the  second  sight." 

On  one  occasion  IMr.  Grant,  younger  of 
Ballindalloch,  was  dining  at  Stoneywood.  He 
yas  an  officer  in  the  Dutch  Brigade,  and  had 

Ilka  ane  that  sells  gude  liquor, 
Kens  how  Donald  bends  a  bicker ; 
When  he's  fou  he's  stout  and  saucy 
Keeps  the  cantle  o'  the  causey; 
Highland  chief  and  Lavvland  laircj 
Iklaun  gie  way  to  Donald  Caird. 

•  Steek  the  awmrie,  lock  the  ki:  \ 
Else  some  gear  will  sune  be  mbi:; 
Donald  Caird  finds  orra  thmgs 
Where  Allan  Gregor  fand  the  tingi 
Dunts  o'  kebbuck,  taits  o*  woo. 
Whiles  a  hen  and  whiles  a,  soo  f 
Webs  or  duds  frae  hedge  or  yard-* 
'Ware  the  wuddie,  Donald  Caixdl** 


i62  B  Jacobite  ifamilg. 

come  home  to  raise  men  for  a  company,  whicli 
only  wanted  twelve  of  its  complement.  He 
was  lamenting  this  to  Mr.  Moir,  who  jocularly 
remarked,  that  "  if  John  Gunn,"  who  was 
standing  behind  his  chair,  "  canna  help  ye, 
deil  kens  wha  can."  Upon  which  John  asked 
Mr.  Grant  when  he  could  have  his  men  ready 
to  ship  to  Holland.  "  Immediately,"  was  the 
reply.  "Weel  a  weel,  Ballindalloch,  tak'  yer 
road  at  aince  for  Aberdeen,  tak'  out  a  passage 
for  them  and  twelve  mair,  and  send  me  word 
,")hen  ye  sail,  and,  if  ye  keep  it  to  yoursell, 
Ye'll  find  your  ither  men  a'  ready."  Mr.  Grant 
itnew  his  man,  and  made  his  arrangements. 
The  twelve  men  made  their  appearance  with 
John  at  their  head.  When  they  found  what 
was  their  destination  they  grumbled,  but  John, 
between  fleeching  and  flyting,  praised  them  as 
a  set  of  strapping  fellows  ;  told  them  they 
would  soon  come  back  again  with  their  pockets 
full  of  gold.  They  went  and  never  returned, 
finding  better  quarters  abroad,  and  thus  John 
got  rid  of  some  of  his  secret  confederates  that 
were  getting  troublesome. 

Another  of  John's  exploits  was  in  a  different 
line.  Mr.  Moir  had  occasion  to  go  to  London, 
taking  John  with  him  of  course.    He  visited 


his  friend  the  Earl  of  Wintoun,  then  under 
sentence  of  death  in  the  Tower  for  his  concern 
in  the  rebellion  of  1715.  The  Earl  was  arrang- 
ing his  affairs,  and  the  family  books  and  papers 
had  been  allowed  to  be  carried  into  his  cell  in 
a  large  hamper,  which  went  and  came  as  oc- 
casion needed.  John,  who  was  a  man  of  im- 
mense size  and  strength,  undertook,  if  the  Earl 
put  himself,  instead  of  his  charters,  into  the 
hamper,  to  take  it  under  his  arm  as  usual,  and 
so  he  did,  walking  lightly  out.  Lord  Wintoun 
rethred  to  Rome,  where  he  died  in  1749. 

On  "  the  rising  '*  in  the  '45  John  joined 
young  Stoney^vood,  his  master's  son,  but  before 
telling  his  adventures  in  that  unhappy  time^ 
we  must  go  back  a  bit. 

The  grandson  of  old  Stoneywood,  James^ 
bom  in  17 10,  was  now  a  handsome  young  raan> 
six  feet  two  in  height,  and  of  a  great  spirit. 
As  his  grandfather  and  father  were  still  alive, 
he  entered  into  foreign  trade ;  his  mother, 
our  keen  friend  of  the  green  purse,  meantime 
looking  out  for  a  rich  marriage  for  her  son, 
fixed  on  Lady  Christian,  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Buchan,  and  widow  of  Eraser  of  Eraser; 
but  our  young  Tertius  liked  not  the  widow, 
nor  his  cousin  of  Pittoderie,  though  her  fathez 


s64  21  5acot)fte  Jfamfl^j^ 

offered  to  settle  his  estate  on  him;  Lord 
Forbes's  daughter,  with  a  tocher  of  forty  thou- 
sand merks,  was  also  scorned.  And  all  for  the 
same  and  the  best  reason.  He  was  in  love 
•with  his  cousin,  Margaret  Mackenzie  of  Ard- 
TOSS.  It  was  the  old  story, — liebend  undgeliebt. 
But  their  "  bright  thing,"  though  it  did  not  in 
the  end  "  come  to  confusion,"  did  not  for  a 
time  "  run  smooth."  Thomas,  his  brother,  a 
sailor,  was  likewise  bewitched  by  the  lovely 
cousin.  He  w^as  refused,  found  out  the  reason, 
and  in  his  rage  and  jealousy  intercepted  the 
letters  between  the  lovers  for  three  long 
miserable  years,  James  living  all  the  time  at 
Stoneywood,  and  she  far  away  in  Ross-shire. 
The  unworthy  sailor  made  his  way  to  Ardross, 
asked  Margaret  and  her  sister  why  they  did  n*t 
ask  for  James,  and  then  told  them  he  was 
just  going  to  be  married  to  Miss  Erskine  of 
Pittoderie,  and  to  have  the  estate.  Margaret, 
thus  cruelly  struck,  said,  "Thomas,  ye  know 
my  bindin',  I  have  been  aye  true;  I  have 
angered  my  father,  and  refused  a  rich  and  a 
good  man,  and  I'll  be  true  till  James  himsel' 
is  fause ;  "  and  like  a  frozen  lily,  erect  on  its 
stam,   she  left   them — to   pass   her   night  is 


a  Jacobite  3familB.  ff^^ 

panics  was  as  true  as  his  IVIargaret ;  and  his 
grandfather  and  father  agreed  to  his  marriage, 
under  a  singular  condition:  the  bulk  of  the 
rents  were  settled  in  annuity  on  the  two 
seniors,  and  the  estate  made  over  to  the  young 
laird  in  fee-simple.  The  seniors  did  not  long 
cumber  him  or  the  land ;  they  both  died  with- 
in the  year.  Straightway  James  was  ofi  to 
Ardross  to  claim  his  JMargaret.  He  came  late 
at  night,  and  "  rispit  at  the  ring."  Roderick, 
the  young  laird,  rose  and  let  him  in,  sending 
a  message  to  his  sister  to  get  a  bedroom  ready 
for  his  cousin  Stoneywood.  Miss  Erskine,  ot 
Pittoderie,  was  in  the  house  as  it  so  happened^ 
and  old  Lady  Ardross,  in  her  ignorance, 
thinking  young  Moir  was  after  her,  wrathfully 
sent  word  to  him  that  he  must  not  disturb 
the  family,  but  might  share  Roderick's  bed. 
Poor  Margaret  said  little  and  slept  less,  and 
coming  down  before  the  rest  in  the  early 
morning  to  make  ready  the  breakfast,  she 
found  her  cousin  there  alone:  they  made  good 
use  of  their  dme,  we  may  be  sure,  and  the  cruel 
mystery  about  the  letters  was  all  cleared  up. 

James  and  Thomas  never  met  till  they  were 
both  on  the  verge  of  the  grave  ;  the  old  men 
embraced,  forgiving  and  forgiven. 


166  H  Jacobite  ^familg. 

The  lovers  were  married  at  Ardross  in  Sep- 
tember, 1740,  and  they  came  to  Stoneyvi'ood, 
where  our  stern  old  lady  gloomed  upon  them 
in  her  displeasure,  and  soon  left  them  to  live 
in  Aberdeen,  speaking  to  her  son  at  church, 
but  never  once  noticing  his  lovely  bride.  For 
all  this  he  made  far  more  than  up  by  the  ten- 
derest  love  and  service.  We  quote  the  touch- 
ing words  of  their  descendant:  "With  the 
only  recollection  I  have  of  my  grandfather 
and  grandmother  in  extreme  old  age,  their 
sedate  and  primitive  appearance,  and  my  ven- 
eration for  them,  makes  the  perusal  of  the 
very  playful  and  affectionate  letters  which 
passed  betwixt  them  at  this  early  period  of 
'Jieir  lives  to  me  most  amusing  and  comic." 
But  between  these  times  there  intervened  long 
years  of  war,  and  separation,  perils  of  all 
kinds,  exile,  and  the  deaths  of  seven  lusty  sons 
in  their  piime. 

We  have  seen  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Moir  in  her 
prime,  in  the  possession  of  her  great-grand- 
son ;  it  shows  her  comely,  plump,  well-con- 
ditioned, restful,  debonair, — just  the  vroman 
for  the  strenuous,  big  Stoneywood's  heart  to 
•afely  trust  in. 

Soon  after  his  marriage,  young  Stoneywood 


21  Jacobite  ^amlli^.  167 

had  a  violent  fever ;  the  mother  and  the  cold 
sister  came  to  his  bedside,  never  once  letting 
on  that  they  saw  his  wife ;  and  Anne  Caw,  an 
old  servant,  many  years  after,  used  to  say  that 
**  her  heart  was  like  to  break  to  see  the  sweet 
young  leddy  stannin'  the  hale  day  in  silence, 
pretendin'  to  look  out  at  the  garden,  when  the 
big  saut  draps  were  ringin'  doon  her  bonnie 
cheeks.'*  The  old  dame  returned  to  Aber- 
deen at  night  without  one  word  or  look  of 
sympathy.  They  had  a  daughter, — still  the 
Kjld  lady  was  unmitigated,  but  a  son  made  all 

Thfcrri  came  the  stirring,  fatal  '45.  Stoney- 
^ood^^  when  laid  up  with  a  severe  burn  of  the 
^g,  received  an  express  from  the  Countess  of 
Errol,  desiring  his  immediate  attendance  at 
Slains  Castle.  Lame  as  he  was,  he  mounted 
his  horse  5ind  rode  to  Slains,  where  the  Prince 
^ave  him  \i  commission  as  lieutenant-colonel ; 
\e  found  Gordon  of  Glenbucket  there,  having 
«?ome  from  France,  where  he  had  lived  in 
exile  since  the  '15,  his  son  with  him,  and 
though  he  \v.»3  blind  he  joined  the  cause,  so 
that  there  wire  then  three  generations  of  John 
Gordons  uuvi^^r  the  Prince's  banner,  as  sings 
the  Jacobite  /oggrel :— ' 


i68  B  Jacobite  Jfamflu. 

**  Nor,  good  Glenbucket,  loyal  throughout  thy  filib 
Wert  thou  ungracious  in  the  manly  fight. 
Thy  chief  degenerate,  thou  his  terror  stoo^ 
To  vindicate  the  loyal  Gordon's  blood. 
The  loyal  Gordons,  they  obey  the  call, 
Resolved  with  their  Prince  to  fight  or  fall.** 

Stoneywood,  from  his  great  strength  and 
courage,  and  his  entire  devotedness  to  the 
cause,  was  a  man  of  mark.  Walking  drown 
the  Broad  Street  of  Aberdeen,  he  was  fired  at 
from  a  window  by  one  Rigg,  a  barber.  Mr. 
Moir  called  up  to  him  to  "  come  down,  and 
he'd  have  fair  play  afore  the  townsmen,"  an 
invitation  il  Barbiere  declined.  Before  joining 
the  Prince,  Stoneywood,  with  characteristic 
good  sense  and  forethought,  took  a  step  which^ 
if  others  had  done,  the  forfeiture  and  ruin  of 
many  families  would  have  been  spared  :  he 
executed  a  formal  Commission  of  Factory  over 
his  whole  lands  in  favor  of  his  wife.  On  the 
utter  collapse  of  the  enterprise  at  Culloden,  he 
made  his  way  from  Ruthven,  near  Kingussie, 
through  the  wilds  ot  Braemar,  and  reached  his 
own  house — then  filled  with  English  troops — • 
at  midnight.  Leaping  over  the  garden-wall, 
he  tapped  at  his  wife's  window,  the  only  room 
left  to  her,  and  in  which  slept  the  childrei*- 


B  Jacobite  3familB.  169 

md  her  raithful  maid  Anne  Caw.  She  was 
lying  awake, — ''  a'  the  lave  were  sleeping,"— 
heard  the  tap,  and  though  in  strange  disguise, 
she  at  once  knew  the  voice  and  the  build  to 
be  her  husband's.  He  had  been  without 
sleep  for  four  nights ;  she  got  him  quietly  to 
bed  without  waking  any  one  in  the  room. 
Think  of  the  faithful  young  pair,  not  daring 
€ven  to  speak ;  for  Janet  Grant  the  wet-nurse, 
was  not  to  be  trusted, — a  price  was  on  his 
head: 

Stoneywood  left  late  the  next  evening,  in- 
tending to  cross  the  Don  in  his  own  salmon- 
boat,  but  found  it  drawn  up  on  the  other  side, 
by  order  of  Paton  of  Grandholm,  a  keen  Han- 
overian. Stoneywood  called  to  the  miller^s 
man  to  cross  with  the  boat.  "  And  wha'  are 
ye  ?  "  "  I'm  James  Jamieson  o'  Little  Mill,'* 
one  of  his  own  farmers.  "  Jamieson  "  was  a 
ready  joke  on  his  father's  name. 

Stoneywood  made  for  Buchan,  w?iere  he  lay 
for  months,  being  hunted  day  and  night. 
Here  he  was  joined  by  our  redoubtable  friend 
John  Gunn,  who,  having  left  his  father's  serv- 
ice some  time  before,  had  gone  into  his  old 
line,  and  had  been  tried  before  the  Circuit 
Court  at  Aberdeen,  and  would  have  fared  iU 


lyo  a  Jacobite  lfam«B. 

had  Stone5wood  not  got  an  acquittal  This 
made  John  more  attached  than  ever.  He  said 
he  would  stick  to  his  Colonel,  and  so  he  and 
his  gypsy  wife  did.  She  continued  to  carry 
letters  and  money  between  Stoneywood  and 
his  wife,  by  concealing  them  under  the  braid' 
ing  of  her  abundant  black  hair.  So  hot  waa 
the  pursuit,  that  Stoneywood  had  to  be  con- 
veyed over  night  to  the  house  of  a  solitary 
cobbler,  in  the  remote  muirland.  His  name: 
was  Clarke.  Even  here  he  had  to  make  a 
hole  behind  the  old  man's  bed,  where  he  hid 
himself  when  any  one  came  to  the  door.  It 
shows  the  energy  of  Stoneywood's  character^ 
and  his  light-heartedness,  that  he  set  to  work 
under  the  old  cobbler  to  learn  his  craft,  and 
to  such  good  purpose,  that  his  master  said, — - 
^Jeems,  my  man,  what  for  did  ye  no  tell  me 
ye  had  been  bred  a  sutor  ?  '*  "  And  so  I  was, 
freend,  but  to  tell  ye  God^s  truth,  I  was  aa 
idle  loon,  gey  weel-faured,  and  ower  fond  o? 
the  lassies,  so  I  joined  the  Prince's  boys,  and 
ye  see  what's  come  o'  'tl"  This  greatly 
pleased  old  Clarke,  and  they  cobbled  and 
cracked  away  cheerily  for  many  an  hour.  So 
iQuch  for  brains  and  will.  On  one  occasion, 
•rhen  hard  pressed  by  their  pursuers,  Mr. 


Moir  turned  his  cobbling  to  good  account,  by 
reversing  his  brother  Charles's  brogues,  turning 
the  heel  to  the  toe,  a  joke  requiring  dexterity 
In  the  walker  as  well  as  in  the  artist.  After 
many  months  of  this  risky  life,  to  which  thaC 
of  a  partridge  with  a  poaching  weaver  from 
West  Linton  on  the  prowl,  was  a  species  of 
tranquillity,  our  gallant,  strong-hearted  friend, 
hearing  that  the  Prince  had  escaped,  left  for 
Norway  in  a  small  sloop  from  the  coast  of 
Buchan,  along  with  Glenbucket  and  Sir  Alex- 
ander Bannerman. 

It  was  when  living  in  these  wilds  that  a 
practical  joke  of  John  Gunn's  was  played  off, 
as  follows : — 

"After  the  battle  of  Culloden,  James  Moir 
lurked  about  in  the  wildest  parts  of  Aberdeen- 
shire to  escape  imprisonment  One  day  the 
Laird  of  Stonywood,  with  a  small  party  (/ 
friends  and  servants,  was  on  the  hill  of  Beno 
chie  engaged  boiling  a  haggis  for  their  dinner 
when  they  were  suddenly  aware  of  a  party  ot 
soldiers  coming  up  the  hill  directly  towards 
them.  Flight  was  their  only  resource,  but 
before  leaving  the  fire  John  Gunn  upset  the 
pot,  that  their  dmner  might  not  be  available 


i7a  ^  5acobite  ^amtlg. 

to  the!"  enemies.  Instead  of  bursting  on  the 
ground,  the  haggis  rolled  unbroken  down  the 
hill,  towards  the  English  soldiers,  one  of  whom 
not  knowing  what  it  was,  caught  it  on  his 
bayonet,  thereby  showering  its  contents  over 
himself  and  his  comrades ;  on  seeing  which 
termination  to  the  adventure,  John  Gunn 
exclaimed,  *  See  there !  even  the  haggis,  God 
bless  her,  can  charge  down  hill.'  " 

Sir  Walter  Scott  must  have  heard  the  story 
from  the  same  source  as  ours,  and  has  used  it 
in  Waverley  as  follows,  missing  of  necessity 
the  point  of  the  bayonet  and  of  the  joke : — 

"  The  Highlanders  displayed  great  earnest- 
ness to  proceed  instantly  to  the  attack,  Evan 
Dhu  urging  to  Fergus,  by  way  of  argument, 
that  *  the  sider  roy  was  tottering  like  an  egg 
upon  a  staff,  and  that  they  had  a'  the  vantage 
of  the  onset,  for  even  a  haggis  (God  bless 
her !)  could  charge  down  hill.'  " 

The  Duke  of  Cumberland,  on  his  way  north, 
quartered  his  men  on  the  Jacobite  chiefs,  A 
troop  of  dragoons  was  billeted  on  Stoneywood, 
where  their  young  English  captain  fell  ill,  and 
«ras  attended  during  a  dangerous  illness  by 


H  Jacobite  ^arnds.  173 

the  desolate  and  lovely  wife.  As  soon  as  he 
was  able,  he  left  with  his  men  for  Inverness- 
shire,  expressing  his  grateful  assurance  to 
Mrs.  Moir,  that  to  her  he  owed  his  life,  and 
that  he  would  never  forget  her.  Some  time 
after,  when  she  was  alone,  one  evening  in 
April,  not  knowing  what  to  fear  or  hope  about 
her  husband  and  her  prince,  a  stone,  wrapt  in 
white  paper,  was  flung  into  the  darkening 
room.  It  was  from  the  young  Englishman, 
and  told  briefly  the  final  disaster  at  Culloden, 
adding,  "  Stoney^vood  is  safe."  He  was  then 
passing  south  with  his  men.  She  never  saw 
him  or  heard  of  him  again,  but  we  dare  say 
he  kept  his  word  :  that  face  W5«  not  likely  to 
be  forgotten. 

Stoneywood,  before  leaving  his  native 
country,  thanked,  and  as  he  could,  rewarded, 
his  faithful  and  humble  shelterers,  saying  he 
would  not  forget  them.  And  neither  he  did. 
Five-and-twenty  years  afterwards  he  visited 
Bartlett's  house,  where  he  lay  before  he  took 
to  the  cobbler's.  He  found  he  had  died.  He 
took  the  widow  and  five  children  to  Stoney- 
wood, where  they  were  fed  and  bred,  the  boys 
put  to  trades,  and  the  girls  given  away  when 
married,  by  the  noble  old  Jacobite  as  a  father. 


174  S  Jacobite  ftimiX^. 

As  for  John  Gunn,  his  master  having  gone, 
he  took  to  his  ancient  courses,  was  tried, 
found  guilty  this  time,  and  closed  his  life  in 
Virginia.  So  ends  his  lesson.  A  wild  fellow 
with  wild  blood,  a  warm  heart,  and  a  shrewd 
head,  such  a  man  as  Sir  Walter  would  have 
made  an  immortal,  as  good  a  match  and  con- 
trast with  the  princely  Stoneywood,  as  Richie 
Moniplies  with  Nigel  Oliphant,  Sara  Weller 
and  Mr.  Pickwick,  Sancho  and  the  Don,  and 
those  other  wonderful  complimentary  pairs, 
■who  still,  and  will  forever,  to  human  nature\ 
delectation,  walk  the  earth. 

We  need  not  follow  our  Ulysses  through 
his  life  in  Denmark  and  Norway.  He  carried 
thither,  as  Mr.  James  Jamieson,  as  into  the 
cobbler's  hut,  his  energy  and  uprightness,  his 
cheery  and  unforgetting  heart,  his  strong  senses 
and  his  strong  body.  He  prospered  at  Gothen- 
burg, and  within  a  year  sent  for  his  Penelope ;  he 
went  at  the  King's  request  to  Sweden,  was  nat- 
uralized, and  had  conferred  on  him  a  patent  oi 
nobility. 

Meantime  he  was  arraigned  In  his  own  coun- 
try before  the  High  Court  of  Justiciary  in 
Edinburgh,  and  though  he  was  known  by  all 
die  country,  and  had  been  in  most  of  the  actions 


?•  5^acobii6  jfamas.  175 

fought,  only  two  witnesses  appeared  against 
him,  and  their  testimony  went  to  prove  his  hav- 
ing always  kept  his  men  from  violence  and 
plunder,  which  drew  down  from  Lord  Justice 
Miller  the  remark,  that  this  was  more  to  the 
honor  of  the  accused  than  of  the  witnesses. 

In  1759,  Mrs.  Moir,  out  of  fifteen  children, 
had  only  two  sons  and  two  daughters  surviving. 
She  came  across  to  Scotland,  and  settled  in 
Edinburgh  for  their  education.  Her  husband, 
broken  in  health  and  longing  for  home,  after 
some  difficulty  obtained  royal  permission  to 
return  to  Stoneywood,  which  he  did  in  1762. 
He  died  in  1782,  aged  seventy-two  years,  leav- 
ing his  dear  Margaret  with  her  two  daughters, 
all  his  seven  sons  having  gone  before  him. 

Our  beautiful  old  lady  lived  into  this  cen« 
tury,  dying  in  1805,  at  the  age  of  ninety-six, 
having  retained  her  cheerfulness  and  good 
health,  and  a  most  remarkable  degree  of  come- 
liness, to  the  last.  Her  teeth  were  still  fresh 
and  white,  and  all  there,  her  lips  ruddy,  her 
cheeks  suffused  with  as  delicate  a  tint  as  when 
she  was  the  rose  and  the  lily  of  Ardross,  gentle 
in  her  address,  and  with  the  same  contented 
evenness  of  mind  that  had  accompanied  hex 
tiirough  all  her  trials.    We  cannot  Dicture  hot 


176  B  5acoBttc  3famUi2. 

better  than   in  her  kinsman's  loving,  skillfo^ 
Words : — 

•*  Accustomed  as  I  was  to  pass  a  few  hours 
of  every  day  of  my  frequent  visits  to  Aberdeen 
during  a  good  many  of  the  latter  years  of  the 
worthy  old  lady's  life,  the  impression  can  never 
become  obliterated  from  my  recollection,  of 
the  neat,  orderly  chamber  in  which,  at  what* 
ever  hour  I  might  come,  I  was  sure  to  see  her 
countenance  brighten  up  with  affection,  and 
welcome  me  with  the  never-failing  invitation  to 
come  and  kiss  her  cheek.  And  there  she  sat 
in  her  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  deliberately  knit- 
ting a  white-thread  stocking  which,  so  far  as 
appeared  to  me,  made  wondrous  slow  progress 
in  its  manufactKre.  Her  ancient  maid,  IMiss 
Anne  Caw,  who  had  been  seventy  years  in  her 
service,  and  shared  all  the  ups  and  downs,  and 
toils  and  dangers  of  her  eventful  life,  sat  in 
a  chair  on  the  opposite  side,  knitting  tlie  coun- 
terpart to  my  grandmother's  stocking,  and  with 
equal  deliberation.  Every  now  and  then  the 
snaid  was  summoned  from  the  kitchen  t-o  take 
up  the  loops  which  these  purblind  old  ladies 
were  ever  and  anon  letting  down.  A  cat  (how 
much  their  iuaior  I  do  not  know)  lay  curM 


ap  on  an  old  footstool,  and  various  little  rickety 
fly-tables,  with  mahogany  trellis-work  around 
their  edge,  supporting  a  world  of  bizarre-look- 
ing china  ornaments,  stood  in  different  corners 
of  the  room.  Every  article  of  furni-ture  had  its 
appointed  position,  as  well  as  the  old  ladies 
themselves,  who  sat  knitting  away  till  the 
arrival  of  two  o'clock,  their  dinner-hour.  The 
only  thing  which  seemed  at  all  to  disturb  the 
habitual  placidity  of  my  grandmother,  was  on 
being  occasionally  startled  by  the  noise  Miss 
Caw  unwittingly  made  ;  for  the  latter,  being  as 
deaf  as  a  post,  was  quite  unconscious  f  the 
disturbance  she  at  times  occasioned,  when,  in 
her  vain  attempts  to  rectify  some  mishap  in 
her  knitting,  she  so  tbornn-h]y  entangled  her 
work  as  to  be  far  beyond  the  power  of  her 
paralytic  fingers  to  extricate,  she  would  touch 
the  bell,  as  she  conceived,  with  a  respectful 
gentleness,  but  in  fact  so  as  to  produce  a  clat- 
ter as  if  the  house  had  caught  fire.  My  grand- 
mother, too  blind  to  perceive  the  cause  of 
this  startling  alarm,  would  gently  remonstrate^ 
*  O  Annie,  Annie,  you  make  such  a  noise  I  *  to 
which  the  ancient  virgin,  who  was  somewhat 
short  in  temper,  seldom  hearing  what  wasi 
addressed  to  her,  generally  answered  quite  at 


1 73  H  5acobfte  jfamUij. 

cross  purposes,  and  that  with  a  most  amusing 
mixture  of  respect  and  testiness, '  Yes,  meddam, 
dis  yer  leddieship  never  let  down  a  steek  !  * 
My  grandmother's  memory,  although  rather 
confused  as  to  the  later  events  of  her  life,  was 
quite  prompt  and  tenacious  in  all  the  details 
of  her  early  history,  particularly  the  agitating 
period  of  1745,  the  circumstances  of  their  long 
exile,  and  in  fact  everything  seemed  clear  and 
distinct  down  to  her  husband's  death,  which 
was  singularly  marked  as  the  precise  point 
beyond  which  she  herself  even  seemed  to 
have  no  confidence  in  the  accuracy  of  her  rec- 
ollection. But  as  the  early  portion  was  far 
the  most  interesting,  it  became  the  unfailing 
theme  on  which  she  seemed  to  have  as  much 
pleasure  in  dilating  as  I  had  in  listening  to 
her  tales. 

"  I  found  it  necessary,  however,  to  be  cau- 
tious of  alluding  to  the  present  reigning  family, 
whick  always  discomposed  her,  as  to  the  last 
she  vehemently  protested  against  their  title  to 
the  throne.  I  was  in  the  habit,  when  dining 
out,  of  occasionally  paying  an  afternoon  visit 
to  her  on  my  way  to  dinner,  which  was  after 
tea  with  her,  when  she  had  entered  upon 
the  second  chapter  of  her  day's  employment 


a  ^acc&lte  family.  x^^ 

For,  as  regularly  as  the  hour  of  five  came 
round,  the  card-table  was  set  out,  with  ail  its 
Japan  boxes  of  cards,  counters,  and  Japan 
saucers  for  holding  the  pool,  etc.,  and  my 
grandmother  and  her  old  maid  sat  down  to 
encounter  each  other  at  piquette,  and  so  de- 
dberate  was  the  game  as  to  occupy  a  consider- 
able portion  of  the  afternoon,  as  the  war  was 
not  carried  on  without  frequent  interlocutory 
skirmishes,  which  much  prolonged  the  contest 
The  one  combatant  being  so  blind  as  to  be 
incapable  of  ever  distinguishing  diamonds 
from  hearts,  or  clubs  from  spades,  while  her 
opponent,  who  saw  sharply  enough  through  a 
pair  of  spectacles,  so  balanced  on  the  tip  of 
her  nose  as  to  be  a  matter  of  never-ending 
wonder  to  me  how  they  kept  their  place,  was 
so  deaf  as  to  have  to  guess  at  the  purport  of 
whatever  was  addressed  to  her,  and  as  they 
both  blundered,  each  in  their  own  way,  it  gave 
rise  to  contretemps  of  never-ending  recurrence, 
as  the  property  of  each  trick  was  disputed, 
*0  Annie,  Annie,  ye  are  so  deaf  and  so 
Stupid.'  *  Yes,  meddam,  it's  a  sair  pity  ye  are 
so  blind.*  *  Well,  well,  Annie,  I  would  rather 
be  blind  as  deaf.*  *Yes,  meddam,  it's  my 
Crick.'    But  with  all  her  testiness,  ther#  o«7^ 


i;So  B  ^accbfte  Jfamfl^* 

was  a  more  devoted  creature  to  her  mistres^i 
and  to  the  Stoneywood  family,  than  that  worthy 
old  woman,  Miss  Caw.  She  was  a  meager,  ill- 
favored  looking  little  personage,  much  bent 
with  old  age,  dressed  in  a  rusty  black  silk 
gown,  marvelously  short  in  the  skirt,  but  com- 
pensated by  a  lanky,  weasel-shaped  waist  o£ 
disproportionate  length,  from  which  was  sus- 
pended my  grandfather's  watch,  of  uncom- 
monly large  size,  which  had  been  left  to  her  by 
legacy,  and  was  highly  valued,  and  on  the 
other  side  Jier  scissors  and  bunch  of  keys. 
These  garments  were  usually  surmounted  by 
a  small  black  bonnet,  and,  trotting  about  with 
her  high-heeled  shoes,  which  threw  the  center 
of  gravity  so  far  forward,  her  resemblance  to 
a  crow,  or  some  curious  bird  of  that  class, 
was  irresistibly  striking,  but  having  been  once 
considered  handsome,  she  was  too  jealous  o£ 
her  appearance  ever  to  suffer  me  to  use  my 
pencil  on  so  tempting  a  subject !  She  was 
the  sister  of  a  person  of  some  note,  Lady  Jane 
Douglas's  maid,  whose  evidence  was  so  in- 
fluential in  the  great  Douglas  Cause,  and  I 
think  she  informed  me  that  her  father  had 
once  been  Provost  of  Perth,  but  that  theit 
family  had  after  his  death  got  reduced  in  ells' 


B  5acol)lte  JTamd!?,  iSi 

cumstances.  She  had  passed  almost  the 
whole  of  her  life,  which  was  not  a  short  one, 
in  the  service  of  the  Stoneywood  family.  As 
to  my  grandmother,  she  was  a  perfect  picture 
of  an  old  lady  of  the  last  "century.  Her  fair 
comely  countenance  was  encircled  in  a  pure 
white  close  cap  with  a  quilled  border,  over 
which  was  a  rich  black  lace  cap  in  the 
form  in  which  several  of  Queen  Mary's  pict- 
ures represent  her  to  have  worn  ;  a  gray  satin 
gown  with  a  laced  stomacher,  and  deeply  frilled 
banging  sleeves  that  reached  the  elbow  \  und 
over  her  arms  black  lace  gloves  without  fingers, 
or  rather  which  left  the  fingers  free  for  the 
ornament  of  rings;  about  her  shoulders  a 
small  black  lace  tippet,  with  high-heeled  shoes 
and  small  square  silver  buckles;  there  were 
also  buckles  in  the  stomacher.  From  her 
waistband  also  was  suspended  a  portly  watch 
in  a  shagreen  case,  and  on  the  opposite  side 
was  a  wire-sheath  for  her  knitting.  Such  was 
old  Lady  Stoneyv/ood.  Her  portrait,  as  well 
as  that  of  her  husband,  having  been  accident- 
ally destroyed,  I  am  tempted  to  substitute  in 
words  some  idea  of  her  appearance." 

And  now  we  must  leave  our  window  and  OQI 


i82  B  5acobite  f  amfl^. 

bright  glimpse  into  tlio  fairiily  within,  and  go 
our  ways.  We  might  have  tarried  and  seen 
much  else,  very  different,  but  full  of  interest ; 
we  might  have  seen  by  and  by  the  entrance  of 
that  noble,  homely  figure,  the  greatest,  the 
largest  nature  in  Scottish  literature,  whose 
head  and  face,  stoop  and  smile  and  burr  we 
all  know,  and  who  has  filled,  and  will  continue 
to  fill,  with  innocent  sunshine  the  young  (ay, 
and  the  old)  life  of  mankind.  Sir  Walter 
would  have  soon  come  in,  with  that  manly, 
honest  limp  ; — and  his  earliest  and  oldest 
friend  would  be  there  with  him,  he  whose 
words  have  just  painted  for  us  these  two  old 
companions  in  their  cordial  strife,  and  whose 
own  evening  was  as  tranquil,  as  beautiful,  and 
nearly  as  prolonged,  as  that  of  the  dear  and 
comely  lady  of  Stone^^vood. 

As  we  said  before,  what  material  is  here  for 
a  story.  There  is  the  crafty  Bailie  and  the 
•'  ower  canty "  Laird  of  Ellon  ;  the  Sunday 
tragedy  ;  the  young  loves  and  sorrows  of 
James  and  Margaret ;  the  green  purse  and  its 
gold-pieces  shining  through,  and  its  "  fendy  " 
keeper  ;  the  gallant  Stoneywood,  six  foot  two, 
bending  in  Slains  before  his  Prince;  John 
Gunn  with  his  Cairds,  and  his  dark-eyed,  rich- 


21  5acobite  f  amdg.  183 

haired  wife  ;  tlie  wild  havoc  of  Culloclen  ;  the 
wandering  from  Speyside  to  his  own  Don  ;  the 
tap  ^t  the  midnight  window,  heard  by  the  one 
unsleeping  heart  ;  the  brief  rapture  ;  the 
hunted  life  in  Buchan  ;  the  cobbler  with  his 
'prentice  and  their  cracks ;  "  Mons.  Jacques 
Jamieson^^  the  honored  merchant  and  Swedish 
nobleman ;  the  vanishing  away  of  his  seven 
sons  into  the  land  o'  the  leal ;  Penelope,  her 
Ulysses  gone,  living  on  with  Anne  Caw,  wait- 
ing sweetly  till  her  time  of  departure  and  of 
reunion  came.  We  are  the  better  of  stirring 
ourselves  about  these,  the  unknown  and  long 
time  dead;  it  quickens  the  capacity  of  re* 
ceptive,  realizing  imagination,  which  all  of  us 
have  more  or  less,  and  this  waxes  into  some, 
thing  like  an  immediate  and  primary  power, 
just  as  all  good  poetry  makes  the  reader  in  a 
certain  sense  himself  a  poet,  finding  him  one 
in  little,  and  leaving  him  one  in  much. 

So  does  any  such  glimpse  into  our  common 
life,  in  its  truth  and  depth  and  power,  quicken 
us  throughout,  and  make  us  tell  living  stories 
to  ourselves  ;  leaves  us  stronger,  sweeter, 
swifter  in  mind,  readier  for  all  the  many 
things  in  heaven  and  on  earth  we  have  to  do ; 
for  we  all  have  wings,  though  they  are  often 


xS4  fi  Saccbite  f  atnUi. 

but  in  bud,  or  blighted.     Sad  is  it  for  a  nr.au 

and  for  a  nation  when  they  are  all  unused,  and 
therefore  shrivel  and  dwine  and  die,  or  leave 
some  sadly  ludicrous  remembrancer  of  their 
absence,  as  "  of  one  that  once  had  wings." 

If  we  grovel  and  pick  up  all  our  daily  food 
at  our  feet,  and  never  soar,  we  may  grow  fat 
and  huge  like  the  Dodo,  *  which  was  once  a 

*  This  is  a  real  bit  of  natural  history,  from  the  Mau- 
ritius. The  first  pigeons  there,  having  plenty  on  the 
ground  to  eat,  and  no  need  to  fly,  and  waxing  fat  like 
Jeshurun,  did  not  "  plume  their  feathers,  and  let  grow 
their  wings,"  but  groveled  on,  got  monstrous,  so  that 
their  wings,  taking  the  huff,  dwarfed  into  a  fluttering 
stump.  Sir  T.  Herbert  thus  quaintly  describes  this 
embarrassed  creature  ; — "  The  Dodo,  a  bird  the  Dutch 
call  Waighvogel.  or  Dod  Eerson ;  her  body  is  round 
and  fat,  which  occasions  the  slow  pace,  so  that  her 
corpulence  is  so  great  as  few  of  them  weigh  less  than 
^t.y  pounds.  It  is  of  a  melancholy  visage,  as  though 
sensible  of  nature's  injury,  in  framing  so  massive  a  body 
to  be  directed  by  complimental  wings,  such,  indeed,  as 
&re  unable  to  hoist  her  from  the  ground,  serving  only 
CO  rank  her  among  birds ;  her  traine  three  small  plumes, 
<short  and  unproportionable ;  her  legs  suiting  her  body, 
feer  pounce  sharp;  her  appetite  strong  and  greedy 
stones  and  iron  are  digested." — 1625.  We  have  in  ouf 
time  seen  an  occasional  human  Dodo,  with  its  "  com- 
plimental wings," — a  pure  and  advanced  Darwinian 
bird,— its  earthly  appetites  strong  and  greedy  ^  <*  an  iO* 


fi  Jacobite  jfamflc*  185 

true  dove,  beautiful,  hot-bloodtd,  and  strong 
of  wing,  as  becomes  Aphrodite's  own,  but  got 
Itself  developed  into  a  big  goose  of  a  pigeon, 
waddling  as  it  went,  and  proving  itself  worthy 
of  its  extinction  and  of  its  name, — the  only 
hint  of  its  ancestry  being  in  its  bill. 

But  even  the  best  v/ings  can*t  act  in  vacuo ; 
they  must  have  something  to  energize  upon, 
and  all  imagination  worth  the  name  must  act 
upon  some  objective  truth,  must  achieve  for 
itself,  or  through  others,  a  realized  ideal  or  an 
idealized  reality.  Beauty  and  truth  must  em- 
brace each  other,  and  goodness  bless  them 
both; 

**  For  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  tfiree  filstea 

That  doat  upon  each  other,— friends  to  man. 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 
And  never  to  be  sundered  without  teaxs.** 

favored  head";  "great  black  eyes*;  "Its  gape  tittgt 
and  wide  " ;  **  slow-paced  and  stopid  "%  its  visage  absujcd 
imd  meUncholy— veiy* 


w  ^yi 


r 

u 


